In The Lanes

 After hours of walking the lanes

cigarette smoke climbs into the void.

Tap water runs under my feet.

Neon lights tremble in the puddles —

needles in my eyes.

Men smoke around me.

Sweat gathers on their foreheads.

Cold hangs from their mouths.

They crush cigarettes beneath their shoes.

One burnt stub looks at me —

I’m over.

I take the last inhale

as if it could prove I’m still here.

I sit facing the lane,

asking nothing.

It answers anyway —

moonless loneliness.

There’s paper in my pocket.

I take it.

Light it.

Smoke.

And the lanes

feel what I feel —

and what I don’t.