Lighting The Cigarette

"Hey buddy," she hisses,
"Got a light?"
She mouths a cigarette in my direction,
leather boots bartering gingerly
with the icy gutter.
The cold asserts itself
despite her fur lined dress,
pierces her bones
but her shudder is more
for having to beg of a stranger.

I light that famished cigarette,
mutter a muted "Cold out."
She nods a grizzled agreement,
then, with a black-toothed puff
on all her addictions,
jerks away from the curb
and. in a shower of neon,
in clouds of gray exhaust,
is on her way.

So, it's on your way, young woman.
Once again, without me,
hell would be a nicotine-starved
hellish cold place.