Cigarette
if cigarettes didn’t make me stink for days,
if I’d ever figured out how to tap the ash away
from my trembling fingertips,
I would sit on the porch taking a long drag
instead of filling the empty space
with music that makes my chest cave in.
if cigarettes could soften the blow I’ve given myself,
I would stick one between my teeth and grin,
ravishing.
fill the pit in my stomach
with smoke and rakish winks.
adjust my sweater with a spindly,
“the nicotine stifles my hunger pains”
hand with my glasses propped atop my hair.
I’d scuff my new boots on the brick wall
for the perfect lived-in taste
and bum a light off a boy with two-day-unshaven scruff.
he would smile as he plucked the cigarette
from my dry, greedy mouth
and we’d trade fluttering glances
but never anything more.
if cigarettes didn’t make me stink for days,
if I’d ever learned how to smoke with two fingers
while drumming the others on my thigh,
I would sprawl across your lap and laugh,
inappropriately bemused
by your half-assed joke about communists.
the tall boy with the scruff would scowl
and you’d flick my nose with a stained finger
as I suck in delicious hospital trips.
we’d never work.
you still pair your socks
while mine tangle in the back of my drawer.
you time your draws
while I frown at the bottom of your jaw
and pull from the cigarette between my lips.
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