Addiction

Addiction

By Suzanne Moberly

She achingly rolls over,
reaches out to the rickety bed table,
fumbles for her Marlboros and lighter,
snaps on the sliver of butane, and takes
a long, deep drag.

Raspy, phlegmy coughs
rattle up through her lungs.
The ratty-furred, black cat cuts
through the smoke, arching and
stretching his way up the bed.
He narrows yellow slits and knows from experience
that nicotine must come before breakfast.

Her gaze follows the wisps of grey curling around the room.
She shifts,
swings her legs off the bed and plants
calloused, brittle-nailed feet
on the floor.
5:45am.

She leans to her side,
checks out the weather between
broken slats of cheap,
pink Venetian blinds.
Snowing lightly.
Damn.

She hates to drive in the snow.
She takes another drag and
lurches to a stand.

Thin flannel – Scooby-Doo long faded to a pale brown –
falls loosely to her ankles.
Lighter and cigs in one hand,
lit fag in the other,
She staggers to the hall.
Another hung over,
Piece of shit day.