Cancer Sticks
Eyes hooded against the rising smoke
Curling, 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
White tubes, their fine filters aligned
Thin threads of tobacco
Neatly cut and shaped
Awaiting their turn for ignition
To deliver their payload
Of nicotine, toxic tar
And complex chemical compounds
Persistent chesty cough, wheezy laugh
Ash-tray aroma of discarded dog-ends
Reeking clothes and sour-smelling breath
Burnt-out, tortured taste-buds
Small price to pay for a short-term fix
Of this, their drug of choice
The death’s head staring
Glaring skull and crossbones
With its oft-ignored warning
Against this unhealthy habit
And the guilty pleasure of the addicted
Now these hospital wards
Their beds white and aligned
Oxygen cylinders and masks waiting
Provide welcome to the punters
The 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
No comments:
Post a Comment