Smoker

I will sit on the apartment's front stoop in springtime and smoke cigarettes, quietly alone, a peacefully private ritual, I decide while walking down the street. Then a stranger drives by and reminds me that I am no Cool Hand Luke. For from her open driver's side window, she surrenders her small bare hand and now soggy cigarette to the cold raindrops of March. I quit before I can start.



I can't afford cigarettes anyway. I certainly cannot afford cancer.



Caffeine will have to suffice. I need something, but it is far too early for wine.