Almost A Sonnet

My drug of choice is food, while my wife prefers the smoky kiss of cigarettes. We have a truce now, whereby I don't nag her: she more or less leaves me alone, as well. That seems the best—respect the person to make choices. I can't see, of course, beyond today's horizon. Consequences await us, statistically, around the bend, although there always seem to be a few who slip somehow past statistics' tentacles. My mental calculus of today's enjoyment depends on my forgetfulness of tomorrow— we're ostriches. Yes, we all will die, but when, and how? I'm writing this to shout what I've been whispering, inside, so long, about.