Concerning tobacco

 

To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied.

 

Children of twenty eight
try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t.
Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked;
me, who came into the world asking for a light.
 

Me, who when asked by a waitress
about the kind of beer I would prefer,
sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond:
cold.
 
Me, who began going out
when I was seven.
Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends
without throwing up once.
 
Me, who stole my parent’s condoms
right before my only brother was conceived.
Me, who came from the uterus dancing
and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.