Dear Tobacco,

I wrote earlier about the little foam butts that are left at the bottom of a ciggarette. You know, the filter? I talked about how they must be filling up virtual landfills that are our streets, lawns, and containers. Well as I was leaving work I realized I'd hardly be able to count how many butts there were between the doors of the office and the 200 meters to the car. You're really invasive, you know.

Then as I was thinking about how you are everywhere, I realized that even in my backyard there is a glass bowl that I offer up as the ashtray to friends who smoke. Sure enough, there is one lonely non-biodegradable butt in there. And I think there are some buried in the dirt in my front flower planters. I wish your ass wasn't everywhere I turned, and that the entrances to my home weren't tainted by your residual presence. I wish the grass by my office wasn't littered with butts.

It's like the feces of a ciggarette, except it won't stick to your shoe if you step on it. Might as well, though.