her cigarettes

the cigarette was a prop
in her hand, as it was for
movie stars in old movies,
a way of dismissing
someone,
or in making a point.
gesturing with the burning
white stick,
blowing smoke,
tapping an ash off into
the air. having one
after breakfast or dinner.
bending towards a lit match
from a stranger
or friend, standing outside
of bars, with others,
like orphans in the wind.
outcasts now in this day.
she didn't like smoking,
she would say to herself
in a rare moment
of self awareness
and honesty, the taste,
the stain of it on fingers
and clothes,
but what else was there to do
with her hands,
and everyone else she knew
and loved smoked too.
no one she had ever known
had died of cancer,
except for one or two,
or any of the other awful
diseases printed now
so clearly on the side
of each package. besides she
smoked menthols and what do
they know anyway.
one day milk is healthy for
you the next day it's not.
smoking made her feel good.
the rise of its blue haze
twisting into her eyes.
the tap tap of a new package
against a table.
the tear of the cellophane.
the draw of the first
hot breath of nicotine, giving
her that warm familiar buzz.
why stop now, at this age.