the end of it - poem

You’re insistent
and remain so,
as the wet suds of beer slide
down the sides of the glass

and, lingering like a thought
above our heads,
someone else’s cigarette smoke

hangs

till I can taste
the black-tar lining of their lungs.

I know, you say, but it’s
for the best –
and I can’t disagree.
I never do.

Which is why we’re here
at the end of it –
a shared life pooling
at our feet

and the death
breath of other people
blossoming in our lungs.