January Afternoon

Sitting on the patio

he takes the last puff

of a cigarette and, in his head, bets

against himself:

if the butt makes it over the wall

he’ll live to a hundred, if not, nada.

He launches the butt with two fingers; it flies

four inches above the wall.

He doesn’t get up; by now, the hose

must have already expelled

all the hot water it had inside

and be running cool,

ready to douse the plants.