Habit

Cold day

trek in alleyway.

Ice under toes

tobacco fit throes

midst slippy, mincy step.

'Must stop.'

I hear me say.

Part of brain

from far away

comes to ear,

 I hear;

'No way today!

'There's still rush

of coffee to be had

or you'll grow mad.'

Habit repetition.

Ammunition

for the arsenal

of word and colour stroke;

to stoke, to brace

the day.

'Should now you take the crutch away

you'll fray and twitch.

A glitch

to blur the crosshairs

of true aim.'

A convincing claim.

Won't slip

keep the  grip.

Have caffeine and the smoke.

Tomorrow I can go for broke.

 © Grapher Nov 2013