REMEMBERING THE DREAM WHERE I WAS A 42 YEAR OLD MAN WRITING A POEM ABOUT SMOKING

by Kitty Tooher

The best way to stop smoking
  is to do nothing but smoke
recline in your wicker rocking chair
and stare down Baltimore Avenue
put aside the newspaper, the
  knuckle cracking, the premeditated
  conversations
and only inhale
lean back and feel four minutes of
  your life go up in a carcinogenic
  plume--
sip your coffee halfway through
and wonder if the brew tastes
  different
with the haunt of nicotine on your
  tongue,
imagine who you would be if not a
  smoker
cleaner skin
pinker lungs
somehow through this you smirk at
  the thought of who you've met
  on the island of stubbed out
  cigarettes, that exists outside
  every establishment--
the fire eyed forty something with
  lipstick clinging to her teeth,
the young professional from the
  financial district
his tie hanging loosely around the
  fourth button down
how he didn't understand your
  disinterest in the stock market,
the aging hipster with grays he was
  ashamed of
and his pack of Spirits flirting with
  the hem of his breast pocket,
these people stuck in your memory
cheerleaders for big tobacco,
the four minute friends you need to
  remind you how social it is to be a
  smoker, in a very specific way
draw in the last inch of it and stub
  it out as quickly as it came
crack your knuckles and consider
  going back inside
your palms on your knees
  waiting for the push upward
the final movement that destroys
  a lap
"no will power" you say as you
  pull one from the pack
adjust the cuffs on your trousers
and go out for a cigarette's length
  stroll around the block