Standing on a balcony in Milan

on the first day of summer;

a bright-red Campari orange soda in one hand 

and a cigarette in the other,

watching the day go past from the treetops

as buses, trains and trams

bring people back home from 

the everyday struggle.

Killing time

pondering about life and its 

overarching purpose 

in a year of loss

and consequent introspection on how to

best spend our ephemeral nights,

and on why do cigarettes – a recently reacquired custom –

simply taste better on this side of the world.

Vices go hand in hand with one another,

and a smoke suits the local culture

like a fine, Italian suit.

Countless hours ashing away like 

slow-burning tobacco;

a finishing touch to compliment 

the after-dinner espresso like nothing else.