After billowing the last
cloud of smoke from
the cloudy mouth and
stubbing it out into
the Moon ashtray,
something always remains
burning between the luscious lips of
mind. A poking stick some
call desire, some dream, some
prefer to call it fantasy, some
call it appraisal, some promotion,
some craving, someone something . . .
By the end of it all, there
always remains in hand
a new cigarette.
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