Comments about Lori Boulard
Not Another Smoking Poem
Sunk in my seat in a meeting at 3,
in a chair better suited for interrogation,
I officially sign off my attention
and jump visually out the window.
I spot smokers lingering below, and envy them
as a child watching fresh falling snow
from an overheated classroom.
Just one drag, I dream, to reassemble my parts.