The Glint ...

It takes a flick of the wrist,
And the strike of a match,
When it's hard to resist
Lighting the first of the batch.

Your seared lips read the poser,
Re-written in the rings of smoke,
While a glowing spot draws closer,
Along with the air to choke.

But, as the ash fills the tray,
And strewn stubs deck out the floor,
If the only change is in the time of the day,
The tobacco might not taste like before.

That's when the cafe can offer a brew,
And more than a change in scenery,
Should it help to get a crony's view,
And the answer you seek isn't binary.

Yet, if the talk is tepid as the beverage,
Or saccharine despite your stir,
When the detail's too much to abridge,
You can't solely fault the cuppa you prefer.

May be, you should try blaming the stars,
For once, looking into the shiny tapestry;
A countless dreams aiming to scale the bars,
You could find the glint to set you free.