Blowing Smoke

Thick white plume gushes from flue pipes, a balcony view. Negative five degrees; I sit. I watch. I think. Blowing smoke sends clouds a confirmation. My cloudy vision readjusts; head nod to cumulus and all things I thought I knew. Furnace breathing system exhales, and I realize false information often misleads me.

My shifting feet. My nippy fingers. My chair, cold as ice. Hand to mouth, another puff of my cigarette; flue pipes timely hiss. I don't inhale; puff, let it go, puff, let it go.

Quit, I will; down to five a day. Drawing figure eights in the air, my cigarette mimics furnace vents. Swirling air-strewn carbon monoxide, not in my lungs. It's okay. I'm okay.

Northern blast erupts, my lips chatter, my fingers are numb. White plume, now grey-blue, signals a warning: insufficient fuel burning. Exhaust vent needs immediate attention. A potential puffback pressures puff, let it go to pause...

I put out my cigarette. Self-told lies have impaired my judgement. Smoke signals are pointless if one chooses not to take action.

~

Author's note: This is my entry in Harper Lewis's unofficial prose challenge.

My apologies for not being present lately. I am battling depression after a very trying time last year. Moving forward, I have decided to focus more on reading here and supporting Vocal creators while pursuing off-platform writing projects, including completing my poetry book.

Many thanks to Harper for creating this challenge, and thanks to all who take the time to read this ❣