They see him there, the quiet smile
upon his lips, recalling something more
that not a one could ever know.
In wisps of smoke the somber man
contemplates the yellowed end,
and deftly rolls the lit cigarette
between thumb and middle finger.
While wondering at the patterns
drifting upwards to be scattered
by the winds mingled with voices.
The crowd has gathered unaware.
To surround the pondering man
whose thoughts remain obscured
and whose gaze cannot be swayed.
He'd thought he'd found the one
those many years ago, the one
believed to be the cure, the one.
He saw her today, the Will-O-The-Wisp
that had sought to lead him nowhere
enthralled by opaque hazel eyes.
She’d purred. “Can I call you sometime?”
"I don't think so," he'd replied, denied,
finding courage bestowed through deep
brown eyes and promise yet unknown.
With a subtle twist, a deep inhale,
exhale, another memory is reconciled.
In wisps of smoke the somber man,
deftly rolling the half-spent Marlboro,
between thumb and middle finger, smiles
and turns eyes of blue to supple brown
to offer whispers of silent thanks
for the love he's yet to know.
Keith E Sparks Jr.
Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
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