Black and Grey Scarf

A circle of ash cascades down the column of cold air next to the stone-plaster ashtray,
they entwining and encircling one another, forming and unforming patters that nobody paid heed to,
providing half-seen distractions for he that stands idly smoking a Camel - a Turkish Royal -, and he wonders:
Why bother to wait here, paused in life until the cigarette burns low, the addiction sated,
cease in all actions until the decision of the nicotine reaches critical mass, and finally decides
to reject life - and slowly whither here in the frozen snows and devouring winds?
He that stands, paused, wonders at the ashtray, and as the embers cool to naught,
he questions why he selected the almost-finished, woolen-scratchy black-and-grey scarf.
For fashion and heat, possibly, although the nature of an unfinished scarf of colors contradictory
seldom lead to either, suggesting instead another, unspoken motive -
Perhaps for the same reason he carries, daily, the wolf-stone from Minnesota;
but as minds turn to wonder at such things, the burning sun of the Camel finally dies,
and he walks away from the plaster-stone ashtray, leaving only footsteps and spirals of ash.