Poem: July 5, 2019

Phantom Limb

There isn't much to miss about smoking.
I remember the stale breath, carrying
the smoke around on my clothes, the extra
stops at Amoco every day and a half, and
managing the butts and ash. But still at
night sometimes my fingers itch and I
stick my thumb between the index and
the middle where I held the soft, wet
circumference of a Camel Light and I
give a little flick, and I remember the bars
at two AM, the whiskey and confusion,
the hope and ragged jeans, the low hunch
of confidences, the gesture of a light,
the long pull, the click and scratch. And
you can't tell me smoking wasn't cool.
It was so cool. I know because I was there.