A puff of panicky breath
hovers on the chill air
and mixes with the smoke
of a cigarette.
Mama looks down on you
—puppy-eyed motorcycle-dreamer,
candy-sucker, dentist-hater—
with the firm gaze
of a ruling judge.
The tears of a child
break not her heart
—she is immune
to his daily down-pours.
The statute stands.
Smoky Quartz 