The Smoker

He was middle-aged,

with a shock of honey-blond hair,

dressed in a suit and tie.

Crossing the street in front of me,
he stood on the far corner,
smoking a cigarette,
waiting to cross again.

Raising the thin tube to his lips,

he took a drag, tilting his head
as if to follow that breath to the end.
Then he held it for a few seconds or more
and let it go.

“That’s how I want to live,” I thought.

Breathing deep,
holding on for a moment,
then letting go.

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