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Smoke for a Ghost. It’s not just a song—it’s a shadow on the sidewalk, a whisper in an alley, a man you pass every day without seeing. Somewhere out there, there's someone asking for a cigarette—not because he wants to smoke, but because it’s the closest thing to warmth he’s gonna get tonight. He’s talking to himself because no one else is listening. He’s not lazy. He’s not dangerous. He’s ill. And he’s alone. We’ve criminalized poverty. We’ve pathologized despair. And the ones who need help the most—the mentally ill, the traumatized, the forgotten—are left to rot in doorways, or disappear entirely. We say things like “he fell through the cracks.” But what if there were no cracks? What if there was a net wide enough to catch him—and all the others like him? Smoke for a Ghost is a plea. A eulogy. A prayer. And maybe… just maybe… a reminder that no one should be invisible. Lyrics He’s out there every morning by the bus depot. Ask him his name, he’ll say “Raymond. Or Gus.” Depends if you got a smoke... or a soul. Says he once had a wife who danced like the moonlight. Now he just talks to pigeons and pockets full of holes. Saw him walkin’ past the corner store, Boots all busted, coat from ‘74. Asked me, “You got a light… or somethin’ warm?” Said, “Just need a drag, or a reason to be born.” He said, “Smoke for a ghost, dollar for the road, I’m not beggin’, just broke, and too tired to be cold. I used to be someone, I used to believe— Now I just borrow the names folks leave.” Claims he played guitar down in Tupelo, “Back when the blues still had somewhere to go.” Talked about love like it still could heal, Like he kept it folded in a coat he could feel. He said, “Smoke for a ghost, dollar for the road, I’m not beggin’, just broke, and too tired to be cold. I used to be someone, I used to believe— Now I just borrow the names folks leave.” Some just get forgotten halfway. He don’t ask much, just wants to be seen, In a world that treats ghosts like a routine. Smoke for a ghost, dollar for the road, Still got stories that ain’t been told. He once had a fire, now he just breathes— A man made of ashes, wind, and grief. Next time you pass him, don’t just look away. He’s not the past. He’s just... one stop further down your highway.