Cliche, cliche, i know - my goodness is there anything new under the sun?!
MORNING CIGARETTES
she slow-inhales her cigarette
waiting for the morning sun
to heat her hands - later her head.
she remembers when Rob sat there
in the rosewood chair,
his mysterious air and brown coat
all Sherlock Holmes and brooding flair.
that day their smoke
flowed thickly through,
like breathing hot Lyle's syrup.
the sunlight floods the room.
Jim takes off his shirt
she
lights
another
cigarette
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