Though I quit smoking,
been living clean, greet each day
with sun salutations
and green smoothie,
I can’t expect to get off scot-free.
That’s not how the body works.

The cells remember,
and they are patient —
they wait for you to find
your life’s purpose,
learn of that new grand baby
due in seven months time,
start over with a better partner
than you deserve,
finally retire from that soul-sucking job,
sign the contract for
your first published book —

biding time stewing
in the body’s bile
until you breathe easily again,

then on some moon-ordained night
they messily divide,
uncoupling like young lovers
caught in flagrante delicto
by a stern parent, hand on light switch,
who’s returned home
too soon.