Winter Smokers

Huddled in the sunlit courtyard,
Shivering in winter sun,
Coatless smokers, standing, chatting,
Seeking warmth but getting none,

They perform their daily rituals,
Hands are cupped, and matches flare,
Wasting time in deathly motions,
Filling lungs with poison air,

When the cigarettes are finished,
Butts are stamped and litter strewn,
They return to office buildings,
On their breath are smelly fumes.

© 080405 Petit Poet