In this tenderness we're like poets

In this tenderness we're like poets.... The virtues of looks are what we've extolled. Ascetics, but in reverse. From comfort, At fifty, the aorta, worn out, gives in. Gently into the lungs goes the smoke of a fag, And onward through the blood the pump keeps pushing. The body's rapture in a poisoned spasm, A chunk of pleasure in pure senile haze, A minute-long orgasm from a few drags. Like the scourge of generations since the time of Christ. A standing coma, and oxygen through a tube… Madam, you're inhaling poison, just so you know. And you, young man, aren't you sick already Of carrying on conversations in tarry smoke? You top up the engine with coffee, hand shaking — Such is the curse of a heterotroph: To put into your body whatever idiots tell you. Tossing cigarette butts into the sandbox from above. They can't understand how a daughter's development Gets slightly slowed by failing kidneys. A son at odds with his body from heels to loins Looks at the world from a wheelchair. And often it happens that instead of a child There's just a little coffin, and gravel winding to the spot… Go on, keep getting rid of your stress. Pull oxygen out of the tobacco press. Now and then gulp down a bit of alcohol. Prove to everyone your willpower's pumped up With trips to clubs and chasing skirts. The roads lead to days lost all over again. And in this foolishness we're like poets… And in this dumbness we look for answers…