Calling the Nurse

The coffee cup was still full. 

Black hot steaming

smoke signals climbed toward the

ceiling, like blowing soot

out of dirty bagpipe lungs.

The mug exhaled constant and slow

like the Fall,

until room temperature

crept from the handle around

white ceramic ghost and

met itself on the other side.

My father coughed smokeless rings of

pure tobacco in his paper lined

bed.  The kind we used to make out of

tissue boxes to bury the birds.

I watched my reflection try to

work it's way out of his face

like plastic tubing trying to escape.

And somehow I knew I should drink it

before calling the nurse.