Across the street they light up,
watching cars pass before it’s puffed.
Tossing it to the ground because no one’s around.
Yet it remains
Behind a building, in a hidden corner,
opposing the school’s smoke-free order.
Igniting carcinogen sticks to get a quick fix.
Unable to abstain,
I implored her:
Keep a good grip,
flick off the cherry tip.
Don’t litter those handheld cylinders.
If it’s decomposing in the grass
you’re a jackass.
Send the butt far away
to a garbage dump where it’ll decay.
Two years, ten, easily forgotten on a hill of trash untrodden.
Maybe we should campaign
for an ashtray.