Cigarette

A poem by Carson Pytell

It is midnight now, and I’m without a cigarette:
Sleepless, irascible, itching. Only one thing
On my maligned mind: softening smoke.

It occurs to me, as much as it can now,
How productive such rumination should be.
To focus like this on only one idea would be ideal.

What stellar symbolism should show itself,
What productivity would promulgate,
If only I had the same mind for poesy.

But idealism is for dreamers, and I’m not tired.
The reality is I can only try to substitute.
So I’ll lay back, I’ll try to smoke my pen.


Carson Pytell is a poet and short fiction writer living in a very small town in upstate New York. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Vita Brevis Press, Literary Yard, Leaves of Ink, Revolution John, Corvus Review, Gideon Poetry Review and Poetry Pacific.

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