Lungs
An old woman sits outside,
Reading today’s paper, sipping coffee and
Smoking a cigarette.
She looks satisfied,
The tip flaring orangey red
As she sips another draw
From pursed, cracked lips.
The smoke is almost blue in the evening light.
Her eyes strain through thick glasses,
Underneath silvered hair,
To read words underlined by an
Extended arthritic finger,
Wrinkles channelling down her arm alongside
Visibly bloated blue veins.
Still she breathes, in and out.
She stubs out the butt, and sits
Motionless for a while,
Her fingers crooked around the handle of her cup,
Still gripping tightly
As she reads.
Her eyes don’t seem to move,
And nor does her head,
As gusty winds shake fiercely
The row of tall trees behind her,
And gently fondle a single tuft of her
Thinning grey hair.
She finishes her coffee, and
Lights another cigarette.
I walk away, wondering
Who else could have done with a few more packs.
An old woman sits outside,
Reading today’s paper, sipping coffee and
Smoking a cigarette.
She looks satisfied,
The tip flaring orangey red
As she sips another draw
From pursed, cracked lips.
The smoke is almost blue in the evening light.
Her eyes strain through thick glasses,
Underneath silvered hair,
To read words underlined by an
Extended arthritic finger,
Wrinkles channelling down her arm alongside
Visibly bloated blue veins.
Still she breathes, in and out.
She stubs out the butt, and sits
Motionless for a while,
Her fingers crooked around the handle of her cup,
Still gripping tightly
As she reads.
Her eyes don’t seem to move,
And nor does her head,
As gusty winds shake fiercely
The row of tall trees behind her,
And gently fondle a single tuft of her
Thinning grey hair.
She finishes her coffee, and
Lights another cigarette.
I walk away, wondering
Who else could have done with a few more packs.
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