Bed bound he suckles
nicotine's filtered tips
hyperventilating loudly
between the drawing in of poison
through the hole in his trachea
Cancer stole his throat
but left a cigarette holder
incised in the nape of his neck
where he stashes his vice
two packs daily
Doctors shake their wise heads sadly
and nurses fluff his pillows
around his remains
knowing fool well
his soul is an ashtray
cremating his lungs
turning advice to adding vice
yet he continues to simply
blow smoke rings and wonder
at how straight they fly out
across the folds of his bed
