I wouldn’t know enough
to tell you
what to do with one now
if one were to come to me
and sneak up on me
and snuggle in my pocket
only to bite and infect me
with its poison, its sweet venom,
the first time I reached for
my cigarettes…but in happier times
they would just spring themselves
upon me and I’d be forced to go
without smoking until
it was finished. I’d say,
“it is finished,” as if I
were writing the Bible,
last words of someone on a cross
somewhere; then I’d light one up
and sit back somewhat satisfied,
smoking one down, paying attention
to the curls of smoke, to the
thin crispy sound of the paper
burning around the tobacco.

Now? It is a smokeless marathon —
I stopped with the cigarettes
close to forty years ago; stopped
drinking close to three years now —
or is it more? It might be more.
Stopped drugs and alcohol
about the same time. The substances
frighten me, and now I am so close
to the final show…no matter.
I still have them
sneaking up on me.
I still have
the snuggles, the savage bites
and tears; I count them
like baseball cards or old coins;
I worry over them like iconic stones
on a pagan breastplate —
do they fit?
Are they good enough
to hold court? No matter;
they will find their own way,
I guess. And I will find myself in
one more cigarette, one glass
of good whisky at the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T