My last cigarette feels like my last breath of air,
I wait for it to disintegrate my lungs into 4 quarters
4 times a painful pastime,
A pulling pestilence, that we might enjoy

And while this cigarette is burning so quickly
Coughing can be heard,
the anti smoker lurks
Distracting my ever so professional breathing,
It’s harder now to bare and leave cold

Still awake In the ashtray

“How can you smoke those filthy things don‘t you know they kill you?”
He says with a blank stare of complete ignorance
So I stare back and say “We all have to die sometime, I might get run over by a bus”
I try and laugh but can’t help but feel sad,
I wonder if he was really a born again anti smoker

I am probably right but I let it slide,
Much like the time I have left
I shake the crushed Marlboro box
My fingers are playing, turning around each other
My eyes are narrowing, shapeless, not bright

The lights act like a heavenly place
Where my exhaled breath reflects the sun
filtering into the sweet smelling air
Sucking the walls yellowing stains,

The creature floats and disappears

The cigarette and I Die

“BANG BANG he shot me down, BANG, BANG”

08/22/2004

Author's Note: I am writing poetry about smoking...again.

Posted on 08/21/2004
Copyright © 2024 Sam Roberts