Now An Anthem to a Different Generation

I have a habit of flicking my ashes obsessively
when I smoke.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust”
goes the phrase.
“We’d hate to beat you but we must, we must!”
my mother would follow with a joyful chant
when we were little.

We city smokers know of a sadness
that burns deadlier than the tip
of this cigarette,
sucking itself to non-existence on
this fire
     escape,
sizzling softly, quick,
almost unnoticed,
like a drying ocean.

Out my window
the cars rush down Eastern Parkway,
and young folks laugh
drunk, defiant
on this one more Saturday night.

We’ve all become
survivors.

“Play The Dead!” they said,
not play
dead.

I flick with anxiety,
beat my dust against the wind,
where answers tend to blow
if you’re a dreamer.

And the still summer
air whispers to me:
“we’d hate to beat you,
but we must,
       we must.”