Not Another Smoking Poem - Poem by Lori Boulard
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.
Instant clarity on fire,
neatly wrapped travel-size.
A one-way nonstop ticket back to myself
I stare lustfully, hoping for calm through osmosis
and pressure-treated glass.
I imagine the sensation of that first deep breath
and the peace that inevitably follows.
I practice a zen-like inhale…exhale…
Then, like a school bell rudely ringing, I suddenly remember
I don’t smoke.
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