Our Lady of Nicotine

She passes along the streets, ministering to her remaining followers. They huddle, soaked and freezing, on corners and under awnings. They do not smile when they see her. She wears a canvas coat with many pockets, and beneath the curtain of her hair is the glowing ember of a cigarette. That flame has never gone out, kissing each new cigarette like a baptism, passed on to one of the faithful to hold until she returns, a trail of fire and ash through the years.

They need her, and they also hate her. She accepts their bitter love and is gone.