Smoking Man

The thought was so long,

It never would end.

He stretched it for hours and hours,

Years and years.

He sat on the table with his legs on the chair,

Against the window,

Away from it.

The book had no more pages.

The waves had no more noise.

He lit a cigerette and romanced the smoke.

He inhaled and inhaled and seldom exhaled.

But there was too much smoke in the room,

It cut across the window,

Headed for the sun.

The bright light was too dazzling,

He drew up the curtains.

There he sat in the room,

All by himself,

And the residual smoke.

Curled up in the thought.

The thought was so long,

It never would end.