Dirty Air

She'll say she likes to watch it curl up and around,
the smoke.
She'll say it eases her mind
to watch each twisted strand cling to the clean air,
tainting it.

The washer rumbles beneath her bony figure;
legs crossed and mind crosser.
Thin fingers curl like the climbing smoke
to the end of a burning cigarette.
They delicately move, those fingers,
twirling their possession so lightly.

But that gentle twirl will meet a cold stone wall,
meet it hard,
once she's burned up to the end,
burned for to long.

And that wall puts the light out forever.

Then the bare stub will fall
like its lighter than air, but heavier
than the what it had dirtied.