She smokes by the bus stop in the frigid atmosphere
and children walk by on their way to school.  It must
be cold, her cloud of obscene smoke is quite
pronounced as it blows over the campus.  Don't
you wish they'd told her how dangerous it
was when she could quit?  Now she smokes
a pack a day, she can't get up in the morning
without a fag and her bowl of frosted
wheat thins.  She can't haul herself out of
the house to the bus stop and on to work
without filling her lungs with chemicals.
She can't not smoke away her life.  If
only the bus would get there sooner, rather
than later, and speed her off to waiting
tables in a dress she's too old and fat to
wear.  You might think she would feel guilty
supplying America's youth with second hand
smoke.  You might think she'd tell the kid
who offers her a buck for a smoke he
was too young.  You might not.  She hands
 him the cigarette and he hands her the money.
Hers has burned down so she'll drop it and
step on it and share the kid's light for
her next one.  The bus is late and she
was early.  Funny how things work. 
The kid walks away.