Today is like a cigarette,
Warm and nice, with fluffy clouds like little puffs of cigarette smoke.
The birds chirp like cigarettes, only they’re not on fire.
You call me upstairs, like a cigarette, to show me some work you’ve done–
sadly it’s work that doesn’t cause cancer or increase my metabolism, but jewellery to put on ladies. I don’t respond correctly,
You yell at me for that, but
Like a cigarette, I’m unimpressed, my filter sucking out the most harmful of your words,
the rest tar and nicotine exhaled slowly. I return downstairs, to see
The pack of cigarettes, which are like cigarettes, with four cigarettes still left,
I look at them and wonder if there’s any Free Will,
They stare at me disapprovingly like middle-aged English women at the pub, the kind who smoke cigarettes,
and exhale disappointment and dispair.
My patch on, but not a patch on them, I slink away; a crumpled ten-pack, something halfway between
an addict and a stalling tactic.
It will take thousands of years for my cigarettes to decompose, but I’m losing my composure by the minute.