Emphysema
Those damned witches stoke the fire
stir, stir, stir that cauldron. Phlegm
rises, never subsides. All you see
is the smoke that billows
from your mouth with each exhale.
You’ve told yourself “never again”
a hundred times or more, yet you
find yourself at random convenience
stores at 2:45AM, two packs
of Marlboro Reds and another
cheap lighter clutched in your hands,
a life raft as you bob, adrift,
in the cauldron’s viscid mixture
of compounds, beautiful brown leaves
around you. And always bubble, bubble,
toil and trouble. Light. Draw. Release. Exhale.
ROBERT BEVERIDGE makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Survision, Loud Zoo, and Ghostlight, among others.
Twyckenham Notes 