She couldn’t have been more than seventeen
Her porcelain cheeks framed by a knit cap
·····and Columbia Sportswear winter coat
·····Rubber-soled Sorel boots to protect her feet
from unexpected February snow
As she traversed the cross walk
·····I thought the curling puff wafting upward
·····from her pouting lips proclaimed moist breath
frozen by the frosty air
But as she passed my cozy car on the sidewalk
·····I saw it—the ugly cancer stick
··········dangling between her frigid fingers
marring the loveliness of a tragic teen
In my mind I rolled down the window and screamed
·····Don’t you know those things will kill you?
She didn’t appear to hear
The light turned green
·····I drove away to another day of work
I mourned the inevitable turning
·····of porcelain beauty to wrinkled leather
·······the loss of innocence that must have preceded
··········a decision of one so young to saddle herself
to a deadly habit that serves no valuable purpose
I pondered my own mother’s first smoke
·····the beginning of a habit that would steal
··········her porcelain beauty
and shorten a life already destined to relative brevity
When my mom succumbed to the lure of cigarettes
·····no one really knew how truly evil they are
·····everyone did it, in movies, in restaurants
in more homes than not
But this porcelain girl
·····living in an affluent neighborhood
········wearing designer coat and boots
··········most likely having attended the number one school
in all the state, surrounded by opportunity
She chose to throw it all away for a smoke
·····and I found myself wondering why?
········wondering what stress or burden led her to this place
··········on this sidewalk
with a cancer stick dangling from her frigid fingers
I pray she might kick that nasty habit
·····before she’s eighteen and
may the angels watch over her
Shared for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.