WHY does the thin grey
strand
Floating up
from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?
Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother
downstairs,
A few
times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot
malady,
I should find, for a
reprimand
To my
gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by
one
I let them float
up the dark chimney.