Smoke Gets in your Guts

Afraid to tell him
That the jaundiced sheets from
Which he woke everyday
Already stank of nicotine.

Finding for ways
To make him know that
He couldn’t rub off
That smell from his body
Because years of vice
Had made him sweat it
Already.

Scared of what
I would find if
I forced him
To go see a doctor.
If nothing was wrong,
He’d go on;
If something was
He’d go on anyway.

Fearing indeed
That something
Had earlier started
To eat him alive.
Someday, there’d be
Nothing left of him.
And the staggering lungs
Would go first.

Or tell me they
Already have.