Vaporous

Waste is also what every breath exhales,
A waste that’s usually invisible,
Except through cold air or carrying smoke.

Those little clouds you puff around your head
On a humid, chilly evening? Waste, waste
Vapor you’d notice, bag over your head,

Evaporation then expiration.
But it’s necessary, obviously,
And on fresh, healthy breath that waste is sweet.

Hot air, says the preacher, all is vapor,
At least a little warmed by sojourning
Its short while in the cavern of the chest.

Don’t breathe a word about it when you breathe.
Think about it sometimes, though, and then breathe.