Intermission

Twenty-two days of a clean, hollow chest,

of chewing on straws and ignoring the rest.

But the manager barked about chairs and my pay,

and the "New Me" just folded and shuffled away.

The lighter is cheap and the fluid is cold,

bought with the change that I managed to hold.

I struck it once and the flame took a bite,

tearing a hole in the thick of the night.

The first plume of gray is a soft, shifting shape

drifting toward the bulb on the fire escape.

I promised to quit, but the winter is long,

and being a failure is where I belong.