by June T. Bassemir
She was only a wee mite,
with hair of snow white.
She reminded me so much of Gram.
With unsteady feet,
she crossed the broad street.
It was then, I looked down at her hand.
There was white curling smoke,
and this is no joke;
her fingers had nicotine stain.
How revolting that sight,
and to boot – she was TIGHT!
It gave me a queer sort of pain.
copyright June T. Bassemir, 2012