Smoking in Memoirs

Trapped in place by fatigue,

flitting in and out of reality;

the smell of the coffee,

that isn't actually there,

finally pulls me out of the blankets,

and down the creaking pine stairs.

The lighter is thumbed lit

without a cig to ignite;

smoking in the memoirs of the past...

It's well enough to stay inside,

and deal with the withdrawal;

even though it's been a long time since

the last fumes breathed in;

because it's damn cold out there.

Brush away the irritating fly;

I don't mind him so much,

as he's got only a few days left to live,

and I've been keeping track.

And all this while fruitless pursuits,

and stacks of distraction

surround me on all sides,

I feel the hum of the fridge,

and write worthless scraps of detritus.

[15:17|27.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter