The Cigarette Woman

The lady stands at the corner of 53rd

And lights her cigarette, begging for change.

The coins jingle in her pocket. She holds one in her hand:

Smooth silver, cool and etched.

She lights another cigarette. The butt glows like red, hot iron.

From her mouth, the smoke ascends towards the smoggy city sky.



A man is pacing across the street,

Playing his alto saxophone.

Smooth jazz, sweet blues,

His fingers move in perfect time.

And the music plays; he’s got the right tune.

The people passing give him dollar bills.



She stares across the crosswalk.

The cars are stopped and still.

The fire in her cigarette reflects in her cold stone eyes.

Her mouth twitches as the smoke is exhaled.

The jazz is playing and the dollar bills crinkle.

Her coins are jingling still.



With contempt, she grips the silver money,

Until her knuckles turn a pasty white.

She walks towards the saxophonist,

Grimacing on the blacktop crosswalk.



The poor, innocent man is standing.

He begins to play the blues.

The dollar bills are crinkling.

His dinner has been earned.



She runs towards the saxophonist,

Runs ‘til her feet have stopped.

She stands before the innocent man,

Playing the beautiful blues,

And spits in his tired face.

His eyes once filled with passion,

Turn a cold ice blue.



She stuffs the crisp dollar bills into her pockets, greedily.

She runs as she leaves the innocent man behind.

He stops for a moment,

Yelling for the police to catch the “cigarette woman”,

Then carefully places the saxophone in his mouth,

And with a deep, warm breath,

Plays the sad, sad blues.