cigarettes, one after the other, and I miss stepping
     alone into the sun or the dark, apart from others
          who had better sense than I did.   

I admit it: I miss the nicotine, even while telling            
     myself between puffs that this dependency                        
          would not be bad for me. Look at my father:  

He smoked 65 years in a row, from the time
     he was 9 years old, and sure, OK, he had some
          emphysema in the end, but that’s not what killed  

him. My friend Ron used to say a little nicotine was good
     for you, but I never got the hang of just a little nicotine.
          The blast of that first cigarette after breakfast  

with a second cup of black coffee is unparalleled. I miss
     smoking in my car. I miss finding the secret smoking places
          where smoking is banned. Hospitals are especially tricky.  

Once I followed two nurses through the corridors
     after I heard one of them say “let’s go smoke.”
          We exited by a side door onto a sad alley  

with benches and ashcans, a half dozen people in scrubs
     studying their phones, cigarettes balanced
          between their fingers; their patients languishing  

inside. My own mother was dying upstairs
     while I was smoking outside with hospital staff.
           Still, I miss huddling with others in frigid cold  

while the smoke scorches our lungs. I don’t wish to glamorize
     it like some old black and white movie filled
          with cigarette smoke. Even the stench  

of it—I never thought of it as nasty. I miss
     the planning: check my pack, where’s my lighter?
          Always arranging to burn the next one.