He smokes
Like he might find
The answer
Dragged through the filter tip,
As if his mood
Were hunger
And the inhalation
A type of food.

His smoulder
Is in his eyes,
His low hung head
And in dark shadows
Beneath his hood,
Where the ember burns,
Pulsing brighter
With each insistent pull.

He smokes
As if it were a cloak
Of defiance
And comfort mixed,
A dressing
For his sulking bruise,
An action instead of words
Passing the gateway of his lips.

He says it all
In silence
And half smoked butts
Finger flicked
And littering
The thresholds of doorways
And the brick walls he’s leant against.

 Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016