Cold Cat

I want one. How many times have I said this? That damned cat is killing the good rug. Like death, the cold bathroom waits. I fear what's ahead, but what do they care? From everywhere they appear from rings of smoke, Or the night winds blow in old familiar tastes, And I remember those white-hot cigarettes. I curse that cat for clawing new-painted baseboards To ash. Ashes! cold when the party is over. I can still smell burnt paper. My memory understands this, And the mirror does not lie, yet somehow, My hands will learn new habits. The tongue knows for a fact That while I speak tomorrow's words, My body will still weep at withdrawal. So, who will speak for this cold cat, Whose breath is like new toothpaste? To tease me after breakfast, Craving perches on on my shoulders, laughs, Then drags minutes into hours, days. Days! they come and go as they will, Yet want still lingers in the shadows. Out of my living room window I see The sunset trees appear to grow taller. I smile at their efforts, at myself. I know I can do this.