Breathing

For you it is always hard
labor, the fall and the rise

and it is hard labor to watch
the way your hand shakes
like a winter limb
and takes another ciggy
to your lips

picks up a light
picks up the wine
and resolutely
packs a pipe

you need rehab, you won't go
we all know it, we all know

how the story ends, how
you are losing the ability-

your tics like the dripping ice;
twitches of a season's end
a yielding to unwelcomed sun

whatever metaphor will suit it

The in and out is finite
as we will all discover

executioners abound - genetics, fire, time,
in your case, self
(even spring puts out a life)

yet as it happens, sis,
I thought you'd keep it up a little longer
the rise and fall, hard labor
whatsoever the reward.