Smoker

He just walked fifteen minutes in the rain
to spend five dollars to give himself
cancer. He rips into the new pack
before he's through the automatic doors. He's lit
his first before they can close behind him. When he
straightens up he can feel his lungs shrinking.
Tar lounges in the cul-de-sacs of his alveoli.
Tobacco traces a languid finger along his tongue and clings
to his hands, nesting in the crevices of his fingerprints.
The smell of nicotine curls itself into the folds
of his coat and makes itself at home there.
It's a wasteful habit. Everyone tells him as much.

He tends to agree as he lights one cigarette
off the tip of another, burning through them like lovers.