Lily lights
Her grandpa’s pipe.
Lily inhales the smoke.
She splutters,
Spits out the smoke,
Coughs, turns red,
Purple and throws
The lit pipe to the floor.
She runs her small white teeth
Across her tongue,
Removes the scum,
Spits phlegm.
She won’t try that again,
Grandpa can smoke
His own darn pipe,
She muses, watching
The smoking clay pipe
Lie dormant by the bed,
A thin spool of greyness
Rising up to meet her eye
Like some ghostly image
That has refused to die.
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