FROM, ELIAS

                                                   send snowflakes
of ash whirling in my front seat. 
                                           Lead foot, smoke tendrils
are wicked away as soon as my lips part.
Cigarettes are more of an exorcism
                                                    to me, burning away
that evil voice. Loosening my grip on a razor,
forcing down my throat a little memory
                          of wheezing, wishing
I could run as fast as the other kids. Inhaling,
like Uncle outside Sunrise Donuts. That corpse
of a man hacking up his lungs
                                           for one last drag, 
autumn breeze turning smoke sculptural
under beating sun.
                                                             Then quiet. 
                              Tar and acrid thoughts exhaled
makes oxygen cleanse.
		               So, what? I’ll take the ventilator,
better than the alternative: stolen by the wind.