Ex-Smoker

In my heart 
(although it’s been years
since my last smoke)

I’m still ending
most conversations
with the thought of the arc
of a flicked spark
— cherry on the end of a butt — 
into a nearby puddle 

which means most of the time
in my heart it’s been raining
and the notion
that such an action is harmful
is less important
that the joy
of the cool it used to represent

whenever I perfectly centered the toss
into the puddle so that it hissed
punctuating the completion
of my every pithy thought

now I’m just
cancerous and failed
wheezing out platitudes

still
that Marlboro scent can
give me heaven
with a death punch
and I miss 
the hiss
the rain
the time when my heart
could hold things