Cancer Sticks
Eyes hooded against the rising smoke
Curling and swirling around
Fingers cupped, cradling precious embers
Huddling together outside the doorway
Inhaling deeply
Lungs expanding, taking the hit
Shivering with cold
Envious of warmer company
And half-drunk beers waiting inside
Nestling in pockets and hands
Perfectly packaged poison
Thin tubes, fine filters aligned
Threads of tobacco cut and shaped,
White rolls awaiting their turn for ignition
And to deliver their payload
Of nicotine, toxic tar
And complex chemical compounds
Persistent chesty cough, wheezy laugh
Ash-tray smells of discarded dog-ends
Reeking clothes and sour breath
Burnt-out aromas, tortured taste-buds,
Small price to pay for a short-term fix
Of their drug of choice
A death’s head staring
Skull and crossbones glaring
With its now-irrelevant warning
Against this unhealthy habit
And the guilty pleasure of the addicted
So these hospital wards,
Beds white and aligned
Oxygen cylinders and masks waiting
Welcome the punters
Smokers and chokers
Grasping sheets, gasping to breathe
Desperate to inflate, if just a little
The shattered remnants
Of their failing bronchia
Glassy-eyed, hollow-cheeked
Staring into middle distance
Dulled by palliative pain relief
They dream of the old space outside
And the chance of one last cigarette
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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