I woke up with a cigarette clenched between my lips.
The smoke had become omnipresent of late -
a little bit of socially, acceptable cancer,
the kind you can joke about,
a little black lung tumour humour.
Later, I rolled up with all the guilt and pleasure
of a someone who knew better,
who could do better,
Like royalty visiting a brothel
Because old habits die hard
And there’s secrecy in smoke.
For the span of a cup of coffee
and a few puffed signals,
I was an incognito prince.
Doing what I shouldn’t
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