Smoke

I’m not at all a connoisseur;
   my sights are on the fix
I’ll get when I administer
   the piece of flame that licks

the edges of the bowl and lights
   the wicked, twisted weed
whose punches, scratches, kicks, and bites
  will make my heartbeat speed.

Club rules are mellow, as I quip.
   I’ve quit three times, or four,
and every time my membership
   was easy to restore.

I’m treated like a great buffoon,
   a rainy-weather joke,
but let me tell you, sunshine, soon
   we’ll all go up in smoke.

Duncan Gillies MacLaurin

If you have any comments on this poem, Duncan Gillies MacLaurin would be pleased to hear from you.