Smoke

Walking by the bar 

my face turns toward the open door.

A whisper of smoke beckons.

I inhale, longing for more.

Acrid. Pungent. Beguiling.

Smells terrible, he says.

No, no --

It smells like home.

And I’m back in the kitchen 

feet sleepers slipping on speckled linoleum.

Mom at the stove smiling.

Cup of coffee on the counter,

cigarette in the Rainbow Café & Lounge ashtray.

Her hug a mix of Jergens and Old Golds. 

Even then, the smoke 

just a shadow on her left lobe, resting a bit 

before its quick journey north 

to her heart.