The Last Cigarette

Mud’s heavy.

Clings like it don’t want me leavin’.

 

The yard’s gone to weeds.

Barn leans east,

boards split,

roof rattlin’ in the wind.

 

Used to be voices here

kids hollerin’ from the porch,

her laugh in the kitchen window.

Now just the pump creakin’,

a dog bark from miles away.

 

She’s been gone five winters.

Kids scattered.

Nobody writes much.

Mailbox hangs open,

spiderweb inside.

 

I light my last cigarette.

Smoke sits wrong in my chest.

 

Halfway down,

I pinch the ember dead,

drop it in the mud.

 

Tractor stays put.

I walk inside.

 

Done