What would my mother say
if she found out
that she provides
financial support to
my abominable addictions?

She pays for the drink.
She pays for beer that tastes
as if it has been roasted in a
50 year old iced tea pitcher,
then cooled in the 28 degree cooler
that is the local gas station’s beer cave.

She pays for the cancer.
She pays for the factory stick,
Filled with that forsaken plant;
my only friend when its three in the morning,
and I’m lonely.

However, none of the guilty pleasures
that have been mentioned,
would bother her as much as my next dependence.

She pays for the sugar.
She pays for my candies and soda that I consume daily.
The substances that turn my tongue into bubbles
And make my body vigorously shake.
And when I smile,
I look like a wise old southerner
that has never visited his
neighborhood dentist, Dr. Sampson.

I’m sorry momma, I’ve got a sweet tooth.