From a notebook. Trying to remember.

I sit there,
a table facing the bar, my cigrete smoke hanging
in the empty space across from me.
The man at the bar looks at his phone, almost troubled. Hes beer
mostly empty, his feelings still full.
Two girls in the far table, just off work
a pint each, await their food just before closing.
The tired, beaten, worn cooks must hate these girls they never see.
My coffee half empty in it's usual place, infront of me.
My cigrette now half gone, as my small cup of soup arives, without a thought
untill the cancer has been smoked and put out.
Smoke first, then food, eat food, then smoke.
It's becomes a rutine of all smokers in a place such as this.
Bring to lips, flick lighter [always zippo never bic], light, drag, blow, drag hard, knock, blow out side of mouth, drag, repeat...
...Die.