| Cigarette Smoke rushes from her lips, curls away; orange fades, awaits another breath. Is she thinking as she watches the fountain push up, fall? Orange brightens; a gray cloud surrounds her. No one approaches; the evening crowds don't notice the way they walk, with a slight hitch as their feet leave the ground, and they rise into the air, fade into orange, await another breath. |
Andrew Shields
If you've any comments on this poem, Andrew Shields would be
pleased to hear from you.