There are certain people I don’t trust.
One of them is a shisha smoker.
“Why how judgemental you Wes”,
True, but how can I take a man seriously,
that puts a pipe between his lips,
proceeds to suck billows,
flavoured, hot, hazy, smokey air,
into the face of the world.
I can’t see through their breath,
I can’t hear a word of truth in their exhale.
The meandering, the pretending,
the display of being so wound up,
they need a device to unwind,
not only comes to me as a cry for attention,
but is a smoke screen they prompt for coolness,
and I don’t do well with cool-addicts.
you can’t comfort yourself,
in a vapour of pillows forever
Then I find out thirty eight years deep into my life my great grandfather had the same disdain for shisha smokers.