His shoulders sagged in relief.

The black cigarette smoke

curled around his finger,

a lethargic snake soothing his soul

He took another puff and closed his eyes.

His always trembling hands were steady,

a conductor and his baton

orchestrating a symphony of nicotine meditation

He gazed and heaved a sigh, opening his mouth.

Smoke escaped like a whispered prayer.

A plea that the work day would go easier,

that the tremble in his hands would continue to cease.

Gray pieces of ash fell at his feet,

reminders of the sanctity of his prayer.

The light at the end of the butt glowed once more

before he flicked what was left onto the ground.

For a moment, he shrank as he let out a breath

His gaze mourning what he consumed.

My father stood up straight and crushed what was left with his foot

The shop door’s bell rang as he opened the door.

Break time is over.