Is smoking a cigarette,
Different between man and woman
You wonder. It should be the same,
A little bird inside tells you, and
Yet it is not, in practice.
A man, takes a smoke to his mouth,
Inhales the magic and the charm
Holding the cigarette
In different finger combinations,
Placing it in the middle of his gapped knees,
Basking in the solitude
Of one’s backyard.
While a woman keeps it, slows it down
And resurrects the nicotine,
In grace and feminineness, holding
The stub on top of two extended fingers
– usually the middle and the index –
On the top of an airy elbow,
Chin held high, with a glimpse
A cigarette is still, a narcotic for both genders.
A place that pacifies and forgets,
Just like the Pacific Ocean.
When you realize you’re like a whale
Coming up for some blissed air,
A sweet breath of a karmic altitude,
Stuffing your system, your subjective high
Soaring your senses, to where
You’re just a point in the atmosphere
And a moment away from gravity pulling you
To ground zero, when you have a stub in hand,
But no nicotine filling you up.
You realize, smoking makes
You the anti-hero of oncology
And yet the Marlboro man of popular culture,
With a whisk of menthol in your mouth,
Making you, on the inside, and on the out,
A personification of what it
Is to be, defiantly “cool”;
Should I say “smoking cool” ?