Smokes – A Poem

Blue Jay

Blue Jay sitting on neighbor’s fence.

Who the hell told you I needed your fucking advice? Where did you get the idea that I needed you to tell me what I need to do? I didn’t ask. What do you mean, “I need to get out more”? Just because I don’t go where you do, doesn’t mean I never go anywhere, you stupid jerk. I decline your invitations because I’m not interested, but you don’t get it. Your interests bore me. I fucking hate Latin music. I thought it’d be rude if I told you that, because you were born in Puerto Rico. I prefer Rock and Roll, and Blues: Gary Clark Jr., Alabama Shakes, Jack White, Patti Smith. But you’ve never heard of them. I haven’t wanted to offend you, so don’t make me. You say, “Friend,” but that isn’t what you mean. You said, “Poetry,” but that was a cover. You liar. You don’t notice people feel sorry for you? You’re delusional. “I’m a big man,” you said. You didn’t notice it was pity, and kindness? You got hit by a car, and lost your prosthetic foot. Everyone felt sorry for you, and held a fund-raiser. You said, “My friends want to honor me. It’s a poetry reading.” I felt doubly sorry for you when I dropped in and saw what it was all about. I even donated five bucks myself. Those were all nice people, doing something nice for you. But I’m going to stop being kind to you. Because you really are delusional. How many invitations have I declined? I don’t feel sorry for you anymore. In fact, you disgust me, because I know you’re really a vulture disguised as a puppy. Next time I see you, I won’t stop to chat. I won’t even say, “Hi.” I’m just gonna walk  on by. From now on, you are invisible to me, buddy.

I had to vent. I was angry. I feel better now.


I wish I had a cigarette.Cherry tree, banana tree, palm, and sky
But I quit. Shit,
years ago, I quit.
Still, I miss it.

I lit one. I lit two.
The stink of stale smoke
stuck to my hair,
my clothes, my skin,
my teeth, my tongue.
I coughed, and coughed,
and lit another one.

I miss it.

But I won’t miss you.
Not a little,
not at all.

You think I need you
to take care of me,
handle my business.

Get back, Jack. I got this.

You can’t handle Birch and Cherry trees
your own shit,
so you want to bungle

You need me
to feel like a big man
because you’re not.

I know.
I once married a man
like you.
He told me what to do.

My word was worthless,
my thoughts weightless,
my feelings funny.

He took care of me.
I didn’t need to worry.

But he’d rather see me dead
than free.

He called it “love”,
but it felt like hate
to me.

I ran away and hid.
It’s the most amazing thing
I ever did.

I wish I had a cigarette.
But I quit. I miss my smokes.
I miss the stink.

But I won’t miss you.


About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet. Artist. Grammy of one, a granddaughter. Mom of three, son and two daughters, all grown. Individualist. Care-taker of Isabel, an agoraphobic, fear-aggressive, very nervous, delicate flower, Chihuahua mix.
This entry was posted in Autobiographical, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.