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But then there are some nights, like this one, for example.
It’s not so cold that the chill goes through you, not to the bones
at least. And smoking a cigarette just seems right. It’s nights like these
that you wish you smoked cigarettes regularly, forced outside
by a compulsion only to find pauses
of unexpected stillness.
Someone coughs.
A little kid raises his voice in whining excitement and is told
“Shh, not now.” An old man bends over his desk, deep in thought—reflective,
not perplexed. Writing a letter? Perhaps. Not paying a bill. Dear Someone…
the possibility of good news exists. A plane flashes by—you think
it’s a plane—seemingly the same distance as the blinking
blue star directly overhead that trembles
with light. And you’re comforted by the fact (because it is
a fact, sure as facts go—as real as the tip
of this cigarette anyway, and as flimsy
as the smoke) that the flickering light may have burned out long ago,
but still you see it.

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