VII Continued Unrest
I can’t rest without a cigarette.
Withdrawal still twists me on its spit.
I suck my toothbrush in rage.
When then is there an end to it?
Was carbon slavery worth its wage?
No—I must not think of it!—
I’ll wash my windows today.
After the windex and the suds
their slime runs yellow and gray onto my rag,
that same sick mucous color you get
from washing an ashtray.
I was living in an ashtray—no;
I was a living ashtray.
I don’t want to die an ashtray.
Yet after the windows were done
I was at a loss at how to reward myself.
With a glass of water? A walk in the park?
A swim at the gym? Shit!
Nothing trumps a fucking cigarette!
I must hold on hold out hold to
hold forth hold back hold sway—
Mommy, don’t let me die an ashtray.