Lockdown Lyricism: “Lit”

From a series of poems I penned during the early months of the pandemic.

Photo by Dimitri Bong on Unsplash

Money for ice cream
And cigarettes.
Money for sweets
And your cigarettes.

“They’re not for me”
I frequently said.
You couldn’t get them yourself,
So you sent me instead.

Your little helper,
Your servant son.
Maybe the youngest,
But not the only one.

Flick the flint’s spark,
Fingertips burnt,
Lighting your cigarettes
An old lesson learnt.

The walls of every house
Stained with your smoke,
Your insides blackened,
My young lungs choked.

So many makeshift ashtrays,
So many sleepless burns.
Now you only remain as ashes
Scooped into an urn.