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Cigar Store Indian
Wind rushed over the rooftops
and into the small common that lay tucked in between two buildings.
With it - gusts of snow stung the face. I pulled a cigarette from its package.
Matches were a bad choice.
The ember burns bright and that taste brings me right back to 16.
Lungs hacked and wheezed - seemed like a lousy deal,
giving up your innocence for a punch in the chest.
Nostalgia
I rubbed my fingers together - it was getting cold.
Not too bright really, standing outside in the snow and sleet.
Sometimes I wonder who's smoking who.
Philosophical nonsense
Do we stomp out our cigarettes? Or do our cigarettes stomp us out?
What keeps me standing outside in the cold, like a cigar store Indian?
poem
by
C.S. Smith
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