My Cigarette

My cigarette, dear cigarette,

I haven’t smoked you wholly yet.

I’ve laid you, burning, at my side

While I attempted to stem the tide

That rises, like a steamy jet,

Deep in my stomach, cigarette.

You looked so nice and round and white

I lighted you in pure delight,

And puffed you lightly three time three,

And then a feeling came to me

That you were not a joy, and yet

You looked so tempting, cigarette.

My thoughts went back to boyhood days,

The stables and the cattle bays;

The bonfires, burning rubber shoes,

Bog hay and raked-up yard refuse;

Those scents and scenes they haunt me yet,

Because of you, my cigarette.

Feb. 2, ‘09