I gotta quit

I remember how
we used to sit
in smoky communion,
dancing trails
mingling above
and nestling
under the ceiling.
Our bitter kisses
were balm
to each other.
Now I drag alone.
Endlessly, I take
the last gasp
of a last cigarette
that always precedes
another.
Every morning
I cough
my guts out.

Ten years of
this habit
building up
in overflowing
ashtrays. Always
on windowsills,
leaning out
over different roads
watching people
walk to work
or town,
or the impish strut
of a small dog.

How good would it be
to heave never
tasted tobacco,
how good would it be
to be free?

A drink triggers
the rolling fingers.
A coffee demands
furtive lusty drags.
Talking on the phone
requires a smoky
accompaniment.

My fingers are stained
with the brown blood
of many inhalings,
my teeth too.
I smell I'm sure.
If I could tell
I'd know. If I
could see the black
milk in my lungs
I would stop.
I could stop.
I could.