At a Pub in Indianapolis

There is an old man smoking
outside the wood-walled pub
on Main Street.
White hair, thick-rimmed glasses,
a soft pack of Marlboro Reds
in his hand and
cigarette thin legs.

He passes his fanned fingers
from his mouth to a limp hang
above the pavement.
Graceful in motion but
such a sad philosophy.

There is a fine balance
with man and his cigarettes:
one will consume the other
and both will leave
their ashes
on the ground.