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 Sunset Donuts. That corpse
of a man hacking up his lungs
                                                for one last drag, 
autumn breeze turning smoke sculptural
under beating sun.
                                                        Then quiet. 
                                    Oxygen’s sweeter after
exhaling acrid thoughts and tar -
		          So what? I’ll take the ventilator,
better than the alternative: 
                                         snuffed out by my own hands,
	                                          stolen by the wind.