A joint smoldering in the ashtray.

I’m breaking my own rule
about trying to write behind smoke.

It hardly matters other than
as a break in my routines,
my long and stubborn tradition
of disliking the way I write
when I’m smoking.

I come back to it,
usually the next morning,
look it over and moan.
Then, it’s gone.

I wonder where I’d be
if I’d ever grown to like
the looser words
I too often saw.

Tomorrow,
I will have
another chance to reject
this. Another step upon
the ring around the sun
I call my control.