You wake in the morning devoid
of any character. Naked.
You reach for the morning headlines,
laughing at the old clichés
as you brew a pot of Maxwell.
You can’t function without that bitter
black-brown liquid; you drink it straight,
sometimes with bourbon,
always with a cigarette.

Your house is a cigarette—
the smoke detectors have no batteries,
ashtrays line up
on every table, you have a room
wall-papered with Camel bucks
and a fruit bowl dedicated to lighters.

Surprisingly your cat is still alive,
though her coughs are no longer
caused by hairballs and her litter box
acts more like an air-freshener.

The people at work sought
a temporary restraining order citing suffocation.
When the building became non-smoking
you lost your job; Bossman could never find you
at your desk.
Not fond of your relocation
to the picnic tables.

Now you peruse the archives in the basement
of the main branch at two a.m.
You indulge yourself with stale, black coffee,
drinking from that “Librarians are sexy” mug
that never fails to leave a faint, brown ring
on the dry, yellowed pages of past editions.

Your articles, like your lungs, are almost dust.

10/28/2009

Author's Note: Found this shell of a gem hiding in the archives.

Posted on 10/29/2009
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood