which isn’t really fair,
since I gave up at eighteen,
And now I’m forty eight.
It seems a bit mean
that after thirty long years,
I still imagine gazing, dreaming,
not bothering to concentrate,
small, thin, hand-rolled fag in small, thin hand,
eyes screwed up a bit, producing tears
against the pale grey spirals curling
into the air.
I always feel like smoking when I sit in this chair,
And I really don’t care
about cancer, though I’ve seen
it’s effects and the terrible state
to which it reduces the human brain.
I think the chair is haunted, but no fears,
no apprehension join me in my scheming,
I just feel an urge to sate
A long forgotten appetite whose only demand
is that I relax, dropdown a few gears,
let the stale day’s hours go rolling
up into the air