The Smoker.

He sits on the roof,
Gently takes a drag,
As the sudden red
Lights up near his eye.

He can see dwindling lights,
Not stars, planes
Flying to heights.

The smoke fills up,
Yet he can see
A distinct lamp post light.

The clear skyline,
Buildings rising to their prime,

A far away siren,
Loud enough to wake him,
As he looks that side.

His metabolism stirs up,
A gentle fart escapes,
He shivers
May be due to the earlier rain,
As the ground hasn't dried.

The ash falls on his toe,
As the rings disappear,
And the last drag
Leaves his lips burnt,
He checks his pockets
No more smokes left to try.