There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after the patches, gum
and incessant vaping,
the midnight bellyache
and rattly ambulance ride
to a chair in Emergency
visited by young, head-scratching
teams practicing medicine
by consensus
find nothing wrong
and send me home—
and the second ride
two days later
across the parking lot
from the Doctor’s office.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
after Sepsis
and the gut-wrenching antibiotics
and mind-bending pain
medications:
I build loops in my sleep
and shoot bighorn sheep
from my hospital bed.
There is a hidden pack of cigarettes
waiting
six months later
after the surgeon tells me
what I cannot eat
or drink—after we agree
to wait a little longer.
< Prays
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