I Cannot Smoke Inside

Though I can still do rizla origami on an elbow potted bar,
I can still throw coins into the pursed mouth of
a machine that shits sixteen smokes for six pounds,
I cannot bring fire to the table-
I cannot smoke inside.

For stranger’s lungs have usurped this beauty
and no more will I hear the fizz of flame only
inches from my silent spittled lips, whilst
a pint shoots gassy escape pods and
there are walls on every side.

I will never see lovers light each other,
without the wind coming between them
and pensioners will sit in the brrr of autumn
with the fruit of winter fuel funds clasped
in glass, by shaken yellowed hands.

We huddle by the hire purchase, handsome heaters,
willing the plumes to dive deeper in
and we cough out the evening rainfall, watch
through windows the healthy others, heads back,
laughing through pristine pipes.