One Cigarette
I knew a man
who smoked one cigarette each day,
mid-afternoon,
accompanied by a cup of black coffee.
Beyond feeding his ego,
control was his raison d’etre,
so he probably did smoke just the one.
Not so with me.
I was far too gone,
reveling in excess on several fronts.
Cigarettes were
my shield,
my pointer,
my distance-keeper,
my comfort in the evening
with one or more neat scotches,
and, of course,
my addiction.
I’ve left behind that obsession,
yet I am plagued by
a particular cigarette memory:
that sweet after-sex smoke.
I miss that singular pleasure,
but then, life requires loss.
I suppose I could try it
one more time,
just the one cigarette
to see what might happen.
But that wouldn’t work.
Unlike my unpleasant
one-a-day associate,
my self-control requires vigilance,
else it dies with a vengeance
that I’m ill-prepared to manage.
Given that,
a smile of recollection will do nicely.
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