It's time again for a cigarette,
when the colours flow through and out of the iPod.
The smoke and the smells are suspended in the sunshine.
This feeling, this square.
The notes don't write themselves, then pen
scribbles while bouncing in the light, is the dog.

It stops to sniff and enquire the cigarette
on the ground in the sunshine.
Then it looks up through the clear square.
Music echoes from the iPod,
the only thing still scribbling is the pen.
Tired, resting, under the bench, is the dog.

The light fades, no more sunshine,
no more sound from the iPod.
Dragging its feet home is the dog
no longer active, neither the pen.
No more people on the square.
No more smoke from the cigarette.

At home, is still the warmth of the sunshine.
Placed on the desk is the pen,
symmetrically next to the iPod.
From the window you look down onto the square.
Next to you, so does the dog.
It's time again for another cigarette.

Smoke dances from the cigarette,
in between the shadows and the lights from the square.
Until another day, gone is the sunshine.
Silently, recharging is the iPod.
Hushed murmurs come from, sleeping in the corner, the dog.
No rest yet, at the pine desk still scrawling is the pen.

Awoken by a new day, restless is the dog.
For it cannot wait to return to the sunshine,
to the people and life of the square,
to hear scribbling upon think beige paper, the pen.
Forgetting not the oscillation of acoustic from the iPod.
And again, as if like clockwork ignited becomes yet another cigarette.

For this routine, beginning to end,
these plans meticulously laid,
no other happiness do they transcend.