I wish that man with the cigarette
knew that he had fire in his mouth,
that I can see him walking through the fog.
He is a floating orange ember,
a thin smoke path up and up from his hand.
There is probably more to his life
than what I see fall to the ground,
but I can't see it.
His face is gone now.
His mild glow has left.
A boot, his probably, covers the ember,
and for all I know the man is no more,
rubbed out.