The Cigarette

He tugged at the stubborn match,
and then it gave way
between his fine fingers.
Struck against a brown strip
of sandpiper,
the match’s white tip burned blue.
He rubbed the slender
cigarette against the flame.
Smoke curled
through resting fingers
until the stuffy mist vaporized
invisibly into the night.
The ash consumed the white stick
which itched for a hardened rap.
He consented several times
only to watch its head roll
to the ground and disperse.
The cigarette’s orange lips
grinned at him,
his guilt inhaling
itself all the while.
Now he was not
a willing player
in the consented suicide,
so he pitched the grinning devil
to the ground,
to die.

Posted in Perspective, Poetry