A Poem a Day (39): Smoke

Today's poem was inspired by a prompt word - smoke - from Leland Hermit, author of many books starring doggie heroes. So, of course, a pooch had to wag his way into this tale below. 
Thanks, Leland! 
If you'd like me to write you a poem, just leave a prompt word or two in the comments. Cheers!
Happy reading & writing to you!

Smoke

So it glides, chasing circles,

Twisting between the tables.

A man’s hand reaches for it,

Flicking ash into a glass bowl;

Breathing it, devouring it,

Sucking it in and blowing it out;

It yields, twisting, turning,

Darting to and fro in the air.

He recalls a solitary wandering

Lit only by the memory of her,

This pale, faint slip of a girl

Running with dark hair flying,

Her sharp heels clipping stone,

Skirt wrapping itself, closing in

Tightly around her taut waist

Where his arms yearn to be.

It carves itself anew each time

This blissful memory recorded,

Becoming ever sweeter still

As he dreams the unfulfilled.

He breathes in the scent of her,

Imagining where she ran to,

Yesterday, in the wet tumult

Surging down in a crystal rush.

He sucks in the woody smoke

Blowing it out in a ring of white

That seems fruitless to bubble

As it breaks and fades to nothing.

She dances here on the tabletop

Where he flicks the greying ash,

Singing of life – a glimpse of light;

Reminiscences make him smile.

Turning the packet in his hand

He taps it against the wood

To a distant rhythm in his mind

In striking contrast to the blues

That hums from the old jukebox.

The cigarette shrinks to naught;

It burns his fingers and he drops it,

Squishing it in the curving bowl.

Getting up slowly, he reaches over

To the sturdy stick always with him.

The Labrador rises, brushing his legs,

Inviting his hands to stroke his fur.

“Attaboy,” he murmurs, smiling,

Knowing that time has come again.

Stumbling forwards, he trails his dog

To the furthest end of the noisy pub.

Out into the cool air and the dark day

He clicks the stick along the street

And in his mind’s eye she runs ahead,

Her skirt blowing up to her knees

While he rushes forth to catch her,

To sweep her up in his open arms,

Her raven hair flying in the breeze,

Twisting like smoke, wild and free.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone