You don’t, this habit
Marlboro Southern Cuts
so strong and smooth.
Gas station black ice trees
growing from your dash.
Empty Marathon cups once filled
with the world’s best coffee.
Window down, air blasting to rid the smokescreen,
ashes falling out the window
along with the ass of the last drag.
Think of carbonated delicacies
instead reach for a white lighter.
Your mom doesn’t like the stench,
reminding her of childhood
reeking of tobacco leaves on the playground
memories of her father’s dry remarks
eyeing the cancer stick
balanced between his wife’s fingertips.
Inhale your coworkers
exhale at 5o’clock during rush hour.
Butter a roll at Christmas dinner
smell the last pack on your fingertips.
Strong, sweet, satisfying musk
black hairy tongues and plaque filled teeth
sucking into your collapsed lungs.
You promised your family the last pack
was the last pack.