She'll say she likes to watch it curl
up and around.
She'll say it eases her mind
to watch each twisted strand cling to
the air,
tainting it.
The washer rumbles beneath her bony
figure;
legs crossed and mind crosser.
Thin fingers curl like the climbing
smoke
to the end of a burning cigarette.
They delicately move, those fingers,
twirling their possession so lightly.
But that gentle twirl will meet a stone
wall,
meet it hard,
once she's burned up to the end,
for to long.
And that wall puts the light out
forever.
Then the bare stub will fall
like its lighter than air, but heavier
than the what it had dirtied.
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