Cigarette Blues

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette. Why do you treat me so?
My love for you is so entwined; can't ever let you go.

As the smoke curls 'round my locks and circles 'round my ear,
you catch my unconcern across the bar; drawing you magically near.

The power of the smoke and its magic when inhaled,
an aura of nonchalance so beautifully exhaled.

Seductive is the smoker's realm; a power that draws one near,
from time to time and on and on from year to year to year.

And then, the fingers, nicotine stained and yellow teeth appear,
what once was new, a witches brew, now coughs for all to hear.

Cigarette burns form patina earns on every place laid down,
red lips on cigarette tips and glasses smeared mascara frown.

Nicotine. Oh, nicotine. Why do you do me this way?
I kicked you once, twice and thrice. But still, you stay.

Your taste is gone. Bitter tobacco caught in teeth to spat on.
Dry fiery throat. Wrinkled haggard old goat. Youth spent, gone.

The whiskey bottle, cigarette and unsteady wobble,
peering through the glass of time searching for a bauble.

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette you will be the death of me.
Cancer, just around the corner, wanting just to be.

Cough, cough and cough some more. Another cancer stick.
Cannot breathe anymore, raw and heavy, oh so sick.

Image (c)

Image ©

After being hauled in by the cops at the ripe old age of seven
for smoking butts and setting an old garage smoldering, but not
really on fire, I decided not to engage in that "filthy habit."
Like many poems, this one just popped into my head and I had to
write from my experience of watching smokers over the years since
I've never experienced any of this.

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Copyright 2016 © Ronald W. Hull


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