(A piece I wrote some time ago while working in an office building; I was watching smokers on my lunch break and was inspired to write this rather dark view of the practice. It is rudimentary in style and almost no form at all, but pray excuse such as this be one of my earlier pieces.)
Double-Breasted Pinstripe and Blue Blazer rested quietly
Smoking in turns;
Blazer causally lit one for later
While his fellow crushed his by the urn.
Pinstripe's gray cells withered all day
While Blazers lungs turned from salmon to gray.
Joe Camel looked out from his white, plastic prison,
Proud to be smoked by those of the Division.
Pinstripe was obsessed with the making of dollars;
Blazer strode into his office,
Accepting no callers.
He affectionately patted his enameled ash-god;
Pinstripe rubbed his sore arms
On which everyone trod...
And through the thin, covered walls
There was no difference between them.
The ivy halls decreed the smoke
Could no longer screen them.
Foreign buttons were pushed, clicked and pounded,
Signaling the world that kept both surrounded.
Hindered by smoke, Blazer merely mumbled
And sat there,As the clear castles crumbled.
It seemed to them both that all would 'work out soon'
But their windows were smashed by the falling blue moon.
The two suits stood,
Surveying the rubble.
Pinstripe feverishly rubbed his stubble...
He ran,
Screaming for a phone to use.
Blazer bent down quietly,
With the last, choking ember
And lit the fuse.
MG
