It’s been a whole month Since she shut down the show; No more retching and gagging On smoke that she blows. No longer she reeks Of the nicotine burned, A quart of perfume Unneeded, returned. Her fingers no longer Contribute the taste Of smoldering ash To her pesto and paste. She’s recovered the use Of her body and wares; She can walk a full block, Navigate a few stairs. The aroma still clings Like a beer to its foam In the paint that has yellowed On the walls in her home. But that will in time Dissipate into air, Like the odor that clings To her clothing and hair. But she’s made it indeed, She’s freed from the weed That she suckled to feed Her nicotine need.