Dead Fish

On a walk home
in the rain
I lit a cigarette.

When I finished it
I doused the embers
that hugged the filter
in a small puddle
that had formed
on the top of a
green power box.

A hot blonde
once told me
that when the city
washed the streets
the butts in the gutters
all end up in the ocean
and kill the fish.

So I hold onto
the spent filter
till I find an ashtray,
because I listen
to everything blondes tell me
and because
I refuse to hurt
fish.

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