Second Hand Smoke Poem by david lessard

I sit in the non-smoking
section of the restaurant.

That's a laugh.

The smoke from your
noxious weed,
still finds me.

I'm going to ask you to
extinguish it, or else
heave in your face.

I'll pursue the former,
but actually favor the latter.

I could just up and leave,
but that would be acceding
victory to the American Tobacco
Industry and to you -
the Malboro Man.

As politely as I am able,
I walk over to your table
and ask you to put it out,
it's made me sick.

You smirk and ask me if
I'm serious -

The favored response occurs.