A shared cigarette late one evening

It is easier to embrace the stars

that shimmer in the gutter, easier to listen

to the water’s litany of failure repeated

over and over, gathering force like a Greek chorus

before the drain is reached

and everything tumbles into the abyss,
than the bright glare of real stars that stare down

from the night sky and twinkle so many words

of hope and effort and parental belief.

It is preferable to choose
the slide to the climb,
the wet seated bum
to the distant gazing eyes.

The two of us sat,
one evening, sharing the dregs
of a cheap bottle of port, a wet fag
and our dimmed hope that made our socks flop

in our cheap recycled shoes.

The cigarette was wet
because you pig-sucked every damn time
you took a drag –
while my legs shook with the cold and my nose

threatened to run riot.

We never glanced up at people

passing by, we could feel their warm coats,

their leather shoes, and the jingle of success

that made their trousered legs

brush our shabby jeans oh so lightly.

We stayed focused on our feet
and, when we had finished sucking it down

to the bitter end, the cigarette butt

as it sailed away, dancing a jaunty jig

until the abyss captured it

and it fell away without even a faint whiff of smoke

or bright red stare of goodbye.