Smoke Screen

The pain shoots threw our hands
up our arms, gives us cold chills
but still we stand under the over hang
while we watch the white, flutter
down against a sea of imovable black

-let us take in this air; so cold
it rests in our mouths, with smoke
before we take it to our lungs
we let both out, in our tobacco trance
no single word shared between us

doing our own thing, until the day
the smoke screen rose enough for us
to lock eyes, and share a moment
before we raise our hands together
repeat the only thing we've ever had.

-when the smoke subsides again
as the snow continues to fall down
I look around but you I can not find
so I just fall back into the same rut:
surgeon generals warning; arm raise, smoke.