Birdsong

I hate how many awful things 
I read, sitting in my living room,
Smoking my little cigarettes 
With my two thumbs and hands posed 
As if in submission. I’m just here 
For a good time, a good meme,
Horrific truths worming their way in. 
When I smoke so much that
The walls then yellow, the ash stains
Whatever it touches, the corner of my lips 
Form downturned wrinkles, I forget
There’s clover in my yard, birdsong 
On my dog walks. There’s mild adventure 
To be had and food to be made and
Clothes to be mended. 
I don’t want to rot away. 
Not here-
Not with this
Fucking thing
In my hand.