I like to think I’ll smoke one more cigar before I go.
It won’t need to be some thick, ostentatious Cohiba,

just something slender, sweet, meaningful, cheap,
chasing the tail of a fractious day, a burnt-orange sun

aquaplaning into the water, a glass of rum, ice.
And you’ll be there, I expect, leading me astray,

like the knowing, older brother you should’ve been.
A ghost of bitter smoke will gather around my tongue,

factory-dry, and I’ll know that this is bad for me, which
in itself will feel better than anything good ever did.

Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Homestead Review and Ink, Sweat and Tears. More of his work can be found here