The first nail in the coffin.

His name is Chris
and his partner's name is John
but by the looks of them
I always want to call them
by the opposite names.
They're the two masons
doing the concrete on the job.
The story they stick to is that they've known each other
since high school and are the same age
but Chris looks an easy five years older.
John says I'm not to first to say that.
More wrinkles around the eyes, less teeth
in the devilish smile, more red than white in the eyes--
the tell-tale signs of the man who's carried the load
for longer than his years admit.

Chris offered me a smoke in the down-time
during a big concrete pour yesterday
while waiting for the next truck
and I gratefully accepted.
The boss had waited until eight-fifteen that morning
to call me in, even though Chris had requested my presence
the day before and said that they could use my help.
I had been up late wrestling with angels, then demons
and was glad that I hadn't been drinking.
Still, I was tired and the hard labor on an empty stomach
wasn't lightening my lids any.
That cigarette looked damn good sticking out from the pack
as he waved it in my direction.

Something caught my eye as I reached for the hand-out
something white amongst the tan of the rest of the filters--
an upside-down cigarette.
This fifty-five year old man still kept a lucky one in his pack
still believed in junior high superstitions and their merit.
Is that what I have to look forward to when I have to sleep
with pillows between my sore knees at night like he does?

I wasn't sure whether to be thrilled or terrified, but let me tell you--
that smoke would've tasted just as glorious
whether or not it was mentholated, and it was.