It's Raining Cigarettes Again, Thomas Mixon (March 2026)

 

It's Raining Cigarettes Again

We’ve been told to leave them, but I can’t
stand the sight of so much white in my garden.
I scattered cosmos seeds specifically to disconnect
my focus from the sky, get lost in worlds
of colors here on Earth. Three weather balloons
already, this morning, cradling their contraband
in utero. A neighbor shot the last one down.
 
I’m on my hands and knees, gathering
unwanted crops, tossing them into the street
the way my grandparents wouldn’t have
dared to do with butts or any tractor chaff.
The old machines are rusting on the edge
of fields that we’ve been told to leave
alone. I miss my wife. I call her phone.
 
Every hour there’s a spherical incursion
of forbidden airspace. Her plane’s delayed.
The neighbor swaddles his revolver like the baby
I am thankful he can’t father. As he waves
his barrel at the clouds, stomping on my flowers,
asking anyone who’ll listen for a war, what else
can I do but close my eyes, and touch the ground?