They are the minority
They are the ones who stand
In cinder block corners
Andbare brick walls
They are the ones with dispirited lungs
They wantsomething more
On cool, bitter days not like today
They stand alone atcement dead ends
In the silence of cobalt noon
Puffing their chickenbones
Wishing they could
E
S
I
R
Like thesmoke that leaves
Disheartened lips
Dreaming those gaseouschemicals
Were wings, a Hindu Rope
Out of the dead alcove
Where spidersand yellow jackets die
In the corners where bombarding
Autumn leavesgather
When the sky's falling
The ominous smoker waits
A canceroussoothsayer
Who wants nothing more
Than to rise above it all
In thecobalt noon
They want to puff away
On the smoke break