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.