I always Feel Like Smoking When I Sit In This Chair

I always feel like smoking when I sit in this chair,

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