December, 1997

The bitter wind
plays havoc
on my carefully 
styled hair.
I suck on the 
cigarette distastefully,
wishing the half-full 
pack in the pocket
of my black leather
jacket was
empty.
"It's a disgusting habit,"
I tell myself.
"And, that's why it's 
not a habit," I rebut.
I groan, knowing by heart
the internal debate
waging in my head.
I shiver under the 
street lamp and
flick the ash downwards.
I stare up at the 
moonlit sky
and look aimlessly
for the North Star.
As I locate the beacon,
I wonder morosely if
it isn't already dead,
and we are merely witnessing
a shadow…
I sigh and think of my own
life,
with my monetary 
problems,
and the weight of my world
on my shoulders,
and I look at the 
smoldering ash
glowing on the cancer
stick in my hand, 
resolutely put it out.
I have too much
to live
for to become a 
shadow
like those stars…