A smoker
in the winter
depends on that feeling
flowing through
their tar caked lungs
and even though their bodies
quiver
like the baby deer
hunters
leave
alone
to remember only the scent
of their mother’s
blood
they remain in the great
outdoors
and they remain
dependent
An alcoholic
in the winter
depends on the warmth
of the barstool and
the sting of the thing
that twists and contorts
reality
so maybe they can
breathe easier
and pretend
they have not murdered
with their words
they have not pounded their
fists into the wall
they did not
fire
that
bullet
that killed whatever it is
they are drinking
to forget
At least the latter
can feed
indoors