Nothing Good Can Come of Smoking (1)

Nothing good can come of smoking Forgive me if I sound like a healthnut I’ve smoked about three packs in my lifetime so far Mostly alone, to hide my shame And I’ve digressed to conclude that Nothing good can come of smoking Forgive me if this seems rude For me to be a smoker I would need to smoke outside in hopes some fresh air would carry away the stench and let it flow up up up and out of my mind but mostly out of the minds of my parents I would need to smoke near a bathroom Where I could brush my teeth immediately afterwards To prevent the rotten yellow stains From creeping melted onto my fake white pearls In my permanent mouth-- my only mouth I also need to hide that smoker’s breath in an attempt to prevent that dreaded questioning have you been smoking? Were you hanging out at the bar? Why do you reek of cigarettes?! No matter how cleanly I act I wash my hands My face My clothes go in plastic bags on the way home But the cigarette smell lingers The pungence contains with it many memories--of being lost And nightmares too--of being found. As dreams of my mother Re-discovering that pack wakes me up sweating Dripping with salty guilt of what I’ve been hiding Nothing good can come of smoking Not the bad breath The anxious dreams The green mucus I’ve been coughing up at work And the workers’ distant sorry stares in my direction that come with it my paranoid thoughts tell me they know they know i've been smoking and they're angry angry at me and angry at the world