Distractions, Reactions and the Darkness of Sunday Night

Living is waiting to die,

the rest is just distraction.

Those of us who dip our toes

into the rip tide of addiction

simply thirst for a fortified diversion

from this elephant in the room.

Now wandering the desert of sobriety,

I keep my thoughts scattered down other avenues,

the scent of childhood permeating

my present tenses sour.

The stink eye of Dad's Camels

looks up from his bygone ashtray still,

in a staring contest with my mind's iris

through a cloud of ghostly smoke;

rising up from the 1970s,

blending into Mom's Alpine

menthol haze of yesteryear,

echoing past a boy's living room dying.

It's sadly rot gut putrid

as distractions go,

but there it is nonetheless:

hanging on,

gripping tight,

claws out.