Smoking on the corner

You strike a match
and cup it against the breeze,

flame to cigarette tip,
a deep inhale,

your knees ache in the chill
when nothing else fills the bill,

the choking burn slides
up and down the throat,

the lungs are harsh words
said in in flaming briar patch,

soon enough your cup
will filled with enough

nickles , dimes and
half torn dollars

for both a bottle and a bed,
indoors before the rain,

out again before
they empty the dumpsters,

you take another drag
and notice the moon

appearing white and round
like the police flashlight

as the clouds clear
in the wind and

the burn in your throat
makes you think

of rooms you moved out of
and back into over and over again

over the years
that now reside in each

ravine you find
every time you wash your face,

"Tonight I drink to you"
say with a nod,

vapor and smoke disguise themselves,

"tonight I sleep with the moon
until morning lights up the streets

or things remain very dark
and quiet".