My drug of choice is food, while my wife <br />prefers the smoky kiss of cigarettes. <br /> <br />We have a truce now, whereby I don't nag her: <br />she more or less leaves me alone, as well. <br />That seems the best—respect the person <br />to make choices. I can't see, of course, <br />beyond today's horizon. Consequences <br />await us, statistically, around the bend, <br />although there always seem to be a few <br />who slip somehow past statistics' tentacles. <br /> <br />My mental calculus of today's enjoyment <br />depends on my forgetfulness of tomorrow— <br />we're ostriches. Yes, we all will die, <br />but when, and how? I'm writing this to shout <br />what I've been whispering, inside, so long, about.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/almost-a-sonnet/
