The roils of smoke

 I sit here

At a nondescript coffee shop

Enjoying the sweet, firey smell

of second hand smoke

 

No, I don't smoke

And the couple of times I tried

(Never in the intention of taking up smoking,

or even in the intention of resorting to it occasionally, 

but in the interest of experiementation

as I often do new things)

it did not smell so sweet

Maybe I did not have the right brand

Whatever

It did nothing for me

So it does not attract me in the least

But now as I sit here

Watching the back of a young man's head

And the whole back, for that matter

Behind which

Rise the tendrils of smoke

blue-gray-purple-white-shining silver

I see their roiling shapes

coiling, becoming solid, round, oval

And through them

The view on the other side

Acquires a mysterious tint

 As if

They were half there

And half not there

Like something out of a fairy tale

Of which there are mere glimpses

I see the whole world

Colored

In that mystical fashion

And then the smoke disperses

As if choreographed

And wild, at the same time

Some of it thinning into

Sold shapes

Some of it dissipating into 

Ever more transparent sheets

And all of a sudden, 

It's disappeared

Like magic air 

That was there just now

And is gone in an instant

Like vapors of a magic potion

Or the intoxicating fumes 

Of a visible spell

And just this sight

Is enough

to entice me