Addiction To The Weed

Do you remember when you used to smoke
those times, usually late at night
when the shops had all shut
and you suddenly found
you had smoked your last cigarette?
Then the Hunt began,
a desperate search, a rummaging
through coat pockets
trouser pockets,
shirt pockets,
ash trays—looking for a single
smokable tab end. Nothing!
So now begins the grovelling,
the groping down the backs
of arm chairs, settees,
lifting up and
looking under cushions.
Somewhere in the house
there must be one—
but no, so then begins,
all dignity gone,
the breaking up of tiny tabs
retrieved from ash trays and
waste paper baskets,
the gathering of the sodden flakes
like gold to be rolled in the folded paper
and licked into a
matchstick-thin
apology for a cigarette.
God, how glad I am
I’ve given up!

by Pete Crowther

Comments (6)

A nice poem with a message!
Realism in its glamour. You must have liked my poem 'Smokers'! Susie.
Like Ulrike, thank you for writing it and reminding us all what it's like to be addicted to the weed. Alas, I am not quite there yet in the battle to quit, sad as it is...
thanks for that poem and for really understanding how a smoker feels! ulrike
A good giggle Peter and thankfully I was never that addicted....coffee, on the other hand...: -)
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