I miss the smokers,the heavy drinkers though my eyes burn when someone lights <br>a cigarette. I miss the poet who drank<br>a bottle of gin a day and talked to his <br>parrot in bird vowels of squeaks and squawks,<br>its eyes following his big gentle hands <br>stumbling through the air. I miss the post-coital<br>smoke of my lover as he raised two fingers<br>that smelled of me to his mouth and inhaled<br>again and again. I miss the whisky priest who danced<br>wet in his robes in the fountain below the Spannish Steps,<br>holding a gelato high above his head <br>andnever dropping it. I miss the tobacco can<br>of my sixty-cigarette a day mother-in-law who insisted<br>she did not inhale. I miss my father who asked me<br>to smuggle a case of beer into the cancer ward,<br>who dragged his intravenous stand to the dungeon<br>smoking room five times a day. I miss the artist<br>in Zagreb who for over an hour in the bar<br>tried to touch the mole on my shoulder<br>and always overshot his mark, his yellow-stained<br>finger jabbing the air. I miss the beautiful<br>woman who drank with Dylan Thomas. After three <br>scotch on ice, she tossed her head all night,<br>throwing back the long hair she didnt have any more.<br>I miss the smokers the heavy drinkers,<br>the ones who walked naked through parties,<br> covered with the hosts shaving cream, the ones<br>who pushed dill pickles into their ears,<br>who played the harmonica with their noses,<br>who could aim a smoke ring to settle like a halo<br>over someones's blessed head. I miss them on the couch<br>where I covered them with the extra blanket,<br>where I took the glowing ember from between their fingers.<br>I miss climbing the stairs to bed, draped in their silky<br>cape of smoke, their singing and jubilation, the small<br>bonfires of their bodies burning through<br>what little was left of the night.
Reason for writing:
I read this Poem by Linda Crozier in the Globe and Mail, one
of the best papers that Canada has.Being someone who enjoys
a drink and the occasional smoke,it struck me as a wonderful
piece of work.The line about " smelling of me" was rather
close to the bone and did bring back some old memories.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Lorna Crozier.