His hand starts to twitch again
and I can't help but stare at the rhythmic tremor.
"One more pack", he says.
The evenings when I come home,
and I can't smell the home-cooked meal over the smoke.
"One more pack", he says.
When we're in the car, and he stops at the gas station,
I know he doesn't need gas.
"One more pack", he says.
He's lost more weight,
his teeth have grown more yellow,
and the shaking continues.
"One more pack", he says.
We say our goodbyes,
and neither of us take it as a surprise.
"I wish you would have listened sooner."
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