Burning Money

That’s smoking.

I’m not joking.

I do it all the time.

Is that my crime?

That and wasting time.

Waste not, want not, the old folks said.

They got older, now they’re dead.

I write this poem just for you.

Something to do.

Later, I may go out and drink.

And think.

Maybe meet someone and talk.

To do that I must walk.

The point is getting there.

That and fresh air.

Still I smoke.

I am a joke.

What would you say if you spoke?

I end as I began.

A slightly older man.

Tich Ennis

4th June, 2016