The Smokers

my pet hate

The smokers are in their line in the alley,

Like prisoners on death row,

Failed escapes are things of the past,

As now they simply succumb to their fate.

Brought together as if by tragedy,

They make idle conversation,

And watch as dead autumn leaves swirl,

Around the used cigarette butts.

Reviews

[Poeticpiers]

A starkly truthful picture Condemned without trial on flimsy evidence