© Margaret Wesseling 2021


The thing is
there aren't many poems about smoking.
I can't think of one.

When you fumble in that bag
and take out paper and a little plastic plug
and tobacco
and roll one
and stick it in your face
and look back up
at me, grinning,
what does it taste like?
Sour, bitter
or just paper?

Ten months out
sitting on the balcony
trying to remember your smell.