Lessons to Live by, According to Truman Capote, I Assume

A Saturday morning poem.

Truman Capote; Bettmann/Getty Images

I'm not what you call 
'a smoker'
but I was born for it. 

there's nothing quite like 
making a point with a well-
placed tap, releasing the end's ash
and their resolve
with it.

or like,
a menacingly perfumed wave 
to embellish a softer thread
of the conversation.
To make it lively and 
entertaining, as I inhale my indifference 
to the spectacle I am holding. 
feeling as natural as a puppet on strings.

or like,
the pause that is forced between 
what I'm saying and what I mean
as I light up, again, to gaze off
into an indescrible amount of distance 
only to say 'sure'
when I finally come back to meet your eyes. 

I exhale my words and their smoke 
that fills the crevices of empty spaces
negatively reasoned out of view
now brought to light 

with a simple flourish
a spark,

and an adept hand at knowing when to set something on fire.