Ashes to ashtrays, a smoke, a praise.

There is something indemnifying
about a cigarette outside in the rain,
under cover of veranda or eave.
The calmness looking out into water,
fire in your hand, livening your mind.
I contemplate the droplets
and forget about the days,
standing on the edge of rain,
breathing foreign haze.
On the border of dry and calm,
and sopping and sad,
I hover.
I feel the expulsion of my lungs into moisture.
A single droplet falls and ruins my cig,
but not my smoke,
and when I feel a cough or choke,
my time on the edge
of security and mortality is done.