To quit or not to quit – question in a poem
I go around and around with this one.
Nicotine patches, toothpicks, gum.
“May I please get a pack of Newports?”
Tell myself it’s better than
As if I absolutely must be
smoking, drinking, or dead.
Smells revolting. Tastes disgusting.
But it grounds me.
I’m solid. I’m standing.
I’m safe. I’m free.
Logically I know it’s a rationalization for
doing something I want to do that’s
bad for me.
But standing in the rain,
cigarette between my fingertips,
I catch myself thinking at
least I found something to
make my mind peaceful.