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You grope for the switch to turn the lights off.
Lighting a match, you pull the shades lower.
It’s nearly impossible to light up a clove,
A constant draft reaches you from the corner.

As you ash your cigarette into a plastic cup,
You reflect on the past, doleful and moody,
And all that’s left from the day is a ticket stub
From the theater you left half-way into the movie.