Skin stretched too thin,
over too much bone.
With long sinewy fingers, and nails to match.
Calloused padding that knew hard work
But also knew the contour of the pen, the brush, or the musicians string
One reached into a denim pocket,
Searching,
Finding a small box and beating it against the others palm,
opening the top, and pulling out a cigarette.
Diving back into the blue to find a lighter too,
And with a flick of those fingers, coaxing a small flame
from nothing,
to the tip of the stick,
and into his lungs from there.
With a deep breathed exhalation, smoke billows out,
rolling like fog across water, and wavering like waves to match,
With us like sailors on the smokey sea,
alone in the world
water from horizon to horizon,
The moon and stars high above
The very surface upon which we stand rolling and lolling beneath our feet
Scents of salt and smoke perforate the moonlit darkness
Should we ever go back to land? I ask.
Away from the smoke and waves
Away from the moon stars and clouds
Away from the peace of our solitude
Alone on the seas which stretch from horizon to horizon
As though my spoken thought stirs him from sleep
He looks at me from his reverie
And replies to me simply
I should like to finish my cigarette.