Quitting

I think that instead of smoking
I'll just write poems.
Poems about you and your dogs
and the day we deep fried a turkey
on a camp stove with a leaky propane hose
in the rain.
We patched it with electric tape
and with our makeshift shelter
we exposed our southern roots and recklessness.
But not a drop of water
hit that oil and the turkey
was damn good.