Smokers By Gary V. Powell

The brands they smoked, each man

or woman a brand unto themselves,

Camel, Winston, Kent, Viceroy.

The ashtrays they placed on coffee

and side tables or next to chairs

for collecting ashes and butts.

How they held those cancer sticks,

between fore and index finger or thumb,

or stuck to a lip while they worked.

Where they kept their pack, rolled up

in a sleeve like James Dean, in a shirt

pocket, or at the bottom of a purse

The Bic they flicked, the matchstick 

struck, or treasured lighter passed

father to son, father to son.

When they wanted one, after dinner,

after sex, before the bell, with a drink,

over coffee, while reading the paper.

The coffin nail inhaled in the school

parking lot, on the riverbank, down

at the Victory Liquor and Lounge. 

The one ground out like an argument

put to rest, sparked through an open car 

window, or mashed into a dinner plate.

The way they exhaled, rings dancing

across a pool room or in a rush 

of words to make a point.

Chesterfield, Lucky Strike, and True.

Tareyton, Merit, and Marlboro.

Salem, Kool, and Newport.

Gary V. Powell is a mostly rehabilitated lawyer and a Pushcart Prize nominee for both his poetry and short fiction. His third chapbook, The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern was published by Main Street Rag Publishing, spring 2026. Recent poetry appears in Writer’s Digest, Oberon Poetry Journal, Southword 50, Passager Journal, and North Coast Anthology I.