Poem #2

Freedom is a cigarette
The crackle of cellophane, the flick of a lighter
Then smoke, heavenly smoke, it lingers
Beyond the burnt nub crushed like a cockroach under my heel.
The rose red cherry diminishing into charcoal ash
And coating my lungs like
A pink bottle of pepto
Except black like soot
Like the plague
And Death.
Such is freedom
From a flip top box.