Smog Breath

I'm an applicant named Smog Breath;
I haven't chance to stand.
Despite all that, still I arrive
and I intend to take a sample of your time.
Name implies me smoggy - eyes so blue and foggy
and I bet upon the shaken hand you felt of my revival.
The hue of your retrieval,
of all my documents, fair and valid
speaks a volume of your tastes
and of my final outcome.
I'll skulk along the lobby, 'til the guardsmen start to mob me
and send me on my highest tail along the garden alley.
Then I'll turn to litter,
a cast out in the gutter
for a vagrant to be enchanted with
as some trinket or another.
My gasps are nigh-pollutants
that tend to feed on O-zone,
all the while I still contend
with the pressures of the unemployed.
My breath is always smoggy, but it's not that it's beyond me,
I simply tend to love the way the smog can be imploring:
a billowing of grayest cloud that forms a shape for speaking
and suggesting many wild things that keep you effervescing.
I am Smog Breath, soon enjoyed
by the company of another;
with a hand of green and gold,
I'll simply lose my sense of shame.
And this will be the last recording, at that time
of anything I care to recall,
for I'll be distant,
and probably really, really quiet.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This one was strange but really fun to write.

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