Women hover over a tin can for an ashtray,
their breath a puff of grey mixed with the bitter cold at dawn.
The discarded cigarette butts miss and hit the ground,
dieing a slow, smoldering death.

Women wrap their scarves tight around their necks,
a makeshift noose without the finale.
Fingers constantly raised to their lips, inhaling and exhaling through tiny filters and thinning gloves.

We know how to expire gracefully,
raven molting lungs, a marine of yellow poison.
Blood stained fingertips and a bleeding heart.
Yes, we know how to do it best.