How many smokes have I burned
since I wrote my first rhyming words
and attempted to call them poetry?

They seem to burn down so quickly
when you get to getting on a roll.

Sitting abandoned…

…on my lips
…between my fingers
…smoldering in forgotten ashtrays
…and burning holes in my clothes

I’d venture to say
hundreds times thousands…
Eleven-thousand-seven-hundred & seventy

I tell ya’
there’s just nothing like it,
sitting back,
flickin’ my generic bic…

scratching my head
and taking a drag while
scratching a word
and taking a drag that’s
scratching the surface
and taking a drag it’s
scratching that itch
and taking a drag

Then I realize
as I squint thru smoky filmed eyes
that I am done writing
right on time with my smoke

and alas
another crappy poem is born
as the crumpled butt dies

crushed
in an overflowing
stolen hotel ashtray