first drizzle of the season
clouds crowd the dark sky
accountant walks her neighborhood
enveloped in street lamp light
cold bites her skin pleasantly
she’s thinking of numbers
old man with cigar sits
on the edge of a red brick planter
the smell of the smoke lingers
“what kind of cigar is that?” she asks
“please don’t smoke, honey,” he responds
she takes the obtuse path around him
she frowns and goes home
her house is much too warm