I sit as quiet as a spent cigarette butt,
crushed ash from the tip
spreading like a shadow, like night
across the concrete.

Absent minded
my thoughts blow in the breeze
unfocused incessant whispers
like the rustle and creak of dry leaves and branches.

Ideas,
without form, without language
only the feint odour of cheap tobacco and nicotine,
appear disappear into thin air
like smoke.