Cough cough cough
Coughing up what shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
A cloud lifts my eyes, then drags them down,
Then does what it pleases.
My mum would like to know why I bother.
So would I.
Even if it was only one.
Taken from a packet swept off a glass and bottle topped table as the previous owner staggered to his home. Or to the toilet.
His manner suggested one and the same.
A famous brand. A week before I’d managed another half full half empty packet. On the floor. Shining at me.
So, in total, a full pack.
Fagging marvellous.
That’s all well and clever,
But sat on a cold window white ledge
At not quite nearly midnight,
Coughing it up, wetness in vision,
Wondering if I’m quite all there after all,
It’s not all well and clever.
Don’t like it.
But then, much as I don’t like the actual, it,
I like it, as an idea.
I’d like to like it.
Mates all smoke,
Grandparents, dad will soon, he says.
Used to.
Little orange and white pipe of puff.
Worth its weight in tar
Or something.
Cough it up, and never will again.
It gives me no pleasure.
And has nothing to do with (as none of it does, none of us do),
Campaigns.
Of any kind.

 

-Spero di averci azzeccato!!! Bac pandina.-