American Spirits

A small brown carton lies among
scattered coffee table contents
I tell myself since they’re organic
it must somehow make them better

But I know I’m simply
smoking cigarettes to die

As my sea of filters flourish
my smoke breaks become more lonely
thoughts of you come creeping back
remember when you used to smoke too?

Now I guess you’re just a quitter
like you gave up on loving me
leaving behind all of your habits
addictions you’ve passed on to me








Angela Bachmann
© Red Cedar, Spring 2016

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