I remember
How smoking cigarettes
Could be a pleasure
Even as the hot smoke
Stung my lungs
And my heart would palpitate.
There was the taste of tobacco
In my mouth
And the urgency of being young,
Poised with intensity,
Ready for actions
That were not required.
I could have been my father
Hunting chamoix
In the mountains
Above Chemonix,
Resting on a rock
And drawing on
A Gaulloise Jaune
And being sick
In the thin air.
Even now I am there.
Not smoking. Smoking.
Breathing. Living.