I light a cigarette and think of writing them,
And in the cigarette I savor my liberation from all thoughts,
I follow the smoke like a lane of my own,
For one sensitive, dexterous moment enjoying
The freedom from all speculation
And the consciousness that metaphysics comes from feeling out of sorts.
Then I fall back in my chair
And go on smoking.
As long as fate permits, I’ll go on smoking.
lady on the photo is Lotta Crabtree
A true San Francisco character,1868