Cigarette

Another poem tore through me

As the clock struck two am

The way this always happens

When I could really use the sleep

It possessed me fully

Forced me to the page

Made its presence known

Dug up my traumas

To help it climb out of the womb

I guided it onto the page

Like some demented doula

And as I set the pen down

The spirit of the poem

Drifted in the air above

Its purpose fulfilled

It found its host

And did its thing

Left me with the aftermath

Not knowing that now

I can’t just lay down in the bed

These are the moments I consider

Taking up smoking

I could walk down to the street

Stand outside my building

Smoke a cigarette or two

Feeling the cool night air

As I decompress

Allow myself to readjust

To life after birthing

The smoke at least

Would drift away

The leaves and paper burn to ash

And now I realize honestly

That’s how I feel

Like I was the poem’s cigarette

It smoked me

Then discarded me

In the gravel of my life

Used me to fulfill a purpose

Then disappeared into the night