The Old Man (edited version)

I was walking down the street
and as I look up and
see an old man struggling
to pick up a discarded cigarette.
Is it menthol, a regular or king?
He scoops up the remnants of
someone else's habit.
Still wet from yesterday's rain.
An old man who crosses my path,
only wanting something I know
he can't have.
His spirit, his soul
hungers for one last drag.
Nicotine stains upon swollen fingers,
that once may have carved stone
or statues out of mold.
His eyes are telling, the creases don't lie
his one last cigarette is
the only image that's left.
Crouching down on unwindable knees,
His despair and agony
is all we can see.