A cigar end hung from his wrinkled mouth,
Barely hanging on his bottom lip,
As the bus rattled down the street,
Threatening to shake it loose.
Charcoal black from use,
Wrinkled.
Bent.
Torn on the edges.
Falling apart.
Smoked down till only a quarter of it remained.
Stubbornly holding on,
Refusing to give out,
But wasn’t lit.
I suppose his fire was enough for the both of them.

 
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