Smoking Lead Poem by Cherie Mort

I go through pencils like smokers go through cigarettes
One at a time
But slowly, slowly the number increases
I hold a pencil to my lips, thinking of what should be created next

And exhale as the smoke leaves my lips
The winter air is cold, but not cold enough to snow yet
And the chill in my bones is hardly warmed by the fiery embers coming dangerously close to my lips
I take another breath of sparks and ash

And set my pencil down upon the table, leaving the lead still ready to be put to use,
The cigarette crushed out and left to grow cold in the chill