cigarette smoke

outside our neighbor is 
pressing the filter to her lips. 
the wind carries fragments
of tobacco to me. there is 
a fence between us but still 
i can hear her phone call with
a credit card company 
or a daughter. i hold onto 
the smoke to travel to my grandmother's
living room. her big blue chair. 
she smoked almost constantly.
the pouring out of smoke from
between her wrinkled lips. 
the apartment had a halo or a haze.
it would make me sick so we'd spend
almost half the visit in 
the apartment courtyard. in the last years
the fountain stopped working & became
a home for birds & bugs. once a dragonfly 
circled the greening belly of water.
sometimes my partner & i joke
that we need a cigarette. neither of us
have smoked. i think it is hereditary.
the need to hold fire between your fingers.
to drink it down. i had another neighbor 
once who smoked. once in awhile
he got a cigar. we never talked about it
but i would stand by the window
when he smoked it. i could hear 
the leaves in his breath. his lungs
like sacks of used fire wood. the body
warm. the place between my grandmother's
middle & index finger was worn
like a loved couch. a soft stain from
the newports. she never talked about smoking.
no warnings against it. instead, it had 
become like a limb. here is where 
i have learned to catch fire.