The Pleasure of Poison
I misplaced myself this morning.
Here on the ridge above the levels,
here on this wet steaming log
over-soaked in winter sunshine.
This, I reckon, is life ground-down,
like beach sand, and there’s no
way of knowing if it’s my breath
or smoke that sinks in clouds on
my head. I used to be pernickety
about which poison I chose. Then
I quit smoking, and I became less
discriminating. Reckon I’ve done
myself a greatness by stopping,
and now I sit here on this log,
and squeeze my warm breath
into smoke rings. Sometimes,
I miss the pleasures of poison.
Words remixed/inspired by pgs 40-42
of The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens