The Dying

He lights up his Luckies
after lunch,
waves his plastic, in an
affected swagger.

To kill time,
he watches the bug bite into his spot of soup.
He smirks, sensing its pompous joy.
It feeds, pulls back in pride,
and dives into its find.

He smirks one last time,
Finishes his cancer stick,
(lung-cloggers he fondly calls them)
and begins his day;
A self-made man.