I stumble through the down-trodden snow in my Birkenstocks,
along a weathered path
that has mistakenly become too familiar.
Up ahead,
there are songs of laughter,
far behind - the feel of a frozen river.
The sweet
sweet
taste of cancer flirts with my lips
as I look around in fear of authority.
I leave personal imprints in snow that is aged
and melting,
stepping on filters scattered like the previous night’s sky.
People talk
about class
and other nonsense,
huddled in a ring of backpacks and jackets.
I strike a match, and kiss the flame with my cigarette,
inhaling the skepticism
from mother and father.
Now I become part of the group, humming my own song,
as we breathe in nicotine
and become more and more late with each
ensuing
drag.
A friend asks me why I started.
The answer, fresh in my mind from reprimands past,
I state calmly:
“I love the way the smoke curls."
Our eyes meet in an agreement
that of which the spiders have with little girls.
Childish.
Naive.
Splendid.
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