On Smoking


gull crying

Once, we sat on the veranda all morning,
Drinking tomato and vodka, eating,
Champagne in peaches, and smoking.

Disdain was the word for smoking, put out,
By the mother, staid and starched back,
Hair white and mussed, oddly out of place,

For an upright woman, who drank one single,
Gin gimlet with olive, in the shade, wide hat,
Struggling smug against the steadfast ocean breeze.

Strong, only in appearance, but childlike,
In her platitudes, and attitudes towards,
The sole daughter fingering long, sleek smoke.

I recalled the bright, white day she drew one,
Looking tremulously towards my wide eyes,
In front of her robed judge, the gulls crying,

In that stacatto falsetto cry gulls,
Are known for, and it seemed appropriate,
To the moment smoking moved into the light.

The fine old octogenarian may have narrowed,
Along her beaded eyes, as the dominant,
Gull does, bowing her back in angry stare,

But that was all, save for one telling cut,
Another gimlet she asked, waving the wide mouth,
Towards my frozen hot face, stifling a grin.

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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