She sits down in front of me and crosses one pantyhoed leg over the other,
and she exhales a long long drag of smoke from her Marlboro Light, 100 or
whatever the f--- it is.
"You don't like it, do you darling?"
No, I do not, the suffering, the wishing I had never started.
The distrorted visions and dreams that fancy ladies smoke.
Real women smoke. You can be made even more glamorous,
by puffing on that graceful wafty stick--wearing a beautiful gown
and apron as you cook and do the dishes.
Or have nights out in bars, perhaps sitting on men's laps
as you throw your head back as you exhale and everyone looks.
In those visions, and delusions, the perfume still smells
above all. There is no stale sweaty scent of the smoke.
Red lips purse around the filter and gracefully draw away.
Children are hugged and deep raspy glamourous laughs comfort
and inspire all.
Aunt Margie was fun, Aunt Margie was pretty. Aunt Margie was glamourous.
But even she who sits here now, feeling pity for me as she draws on her smoke,
and makes it perfectly clear she is wearing high heels at the same time,
knows that the body is corrupt.
It is fragile and prone to rot,
especially with poison.
And what a horrible sickness and death that would be.
She passes in front of the mirror and I notice her reflection.
She has no hair, her teeth are rotting and falling out,
her bones are not showing for beauty, but for disease
her skin is melting off of her arms and her face.
As she sachets away and asks me,
"Darling, would you like a cup of tea."