I'm dealing

With silver venom flowing from his torn lips

That suggested he might do the same

He told me his mother had died of lung cancer

Yet before I could question the lit cigarette

Sitting in the space between his rough fingertips

He whispered to me

In a voice as smooth

As the smoke in his veins

I’m dealing

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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