Sometimes I wish I drank coffee
or smoked Marlboros, or maybe cigars--
yes, a hand-rolled Havana cigar
in its thick, manly wrapping,
. . .
and I'd be writing about war and old losses--
man things--and not where I am, in this
pristine and sensitive vessel, all
fizzy water, reticence, and care, all reduced
fat and purified air, behind my deprived
computer, where I can't manage even
a decaf cap, a mild Tiparillo, a glass of
great-taste-less-filling light beer.