Like A Cigarette Should

If I still smoked,
I’d be lighting up right now
right after rolling out of bed
to taste the only cigarette
I would truly taste all day,
out of all the ones I’d smoke in a day
that was the one cigarette I wanted most,
the one every smoker lives for, the one I smoked
before anything else could get into
my body and come between the smoke
and the smoker, the one that smelled
like my father and his habits, him at the table
with a cup of coffee and the Tribune,
grunting merely, not seeing me
steal a Winston from the pack before school
so I could light up walking along the tracks
and suffer the giddy nausea as I walked,
wondering if the feeling went away
once you smoke more, wondering
if it got easier as you went along,
learning only later that it did not
and smoking even more after my father died of it
because it was what I did back then,
what I thought I was supposed to do,
keeping at it until you taste so little
you have to keep trying to find it again,
living beyond giddiness and nausea and my wondering
at where it all would go
until I saw myself in my father’s habits,
and saw my father in the dark bedroom, in the morning
when I awoke, and though I am like him
I am not him
so I quit.

About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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