Why I don’t trust shisha smokers

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,
and billows,
and billows,
and billows,
and billows,
and billows,
and blows,
and blows,
and blows,
and blows,
and blows,
and blows,
hot, air
hazy air,
smokey air,
worse yet,
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,
well,
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.

Little boy,
grow up,
you can’t comfort yourself,
in a vapour of pillows forever

W.E.

Then I find out thirty eight years deep into my life my great grandfather had the same disdain for shisha smokers.

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