Ode To A Cigarette Butt

 You met my eye in early morning,

forlorn on the sidewalk:

white paper, scorched paper,

lipstick stained filter.

A sentinel from a late night

or an early morning?

I used to see your kind in flocks

once upon a time,

clusters of used fire-sticks 

by diners and coffee shops, in rest stops, 

along trails.

Wherever people gathered,

there you were.

Now I hardly see you at all:

times have changed, you have changed:

once a cherished rite of passage and rebellion

you are now a harbinger of death,

a reminder of a long ago.

What stories would you tell of your brief life,

smoke wafting, fire slowly creeping up your steam,

held in the hands and pink lips of the one 

who cast you aside?

I do not miss you as such,

but you do remind me 

of a not so distant past.