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