Cigarette Summer
Aug 8, 2017 · 1 min read
He would take to pinching the end
and rolling out the tobacco, early August
when the wind begins to whisper
in cool mouth. And then he’d use
the pink chopstick to pack in the ground
Summer cones. He stained the arms:
two Adirondacks, Indonesian, with nothing
but breath and smoke. It would be Fall
before the girls creaked coordinates
from their desks’ seats: for the rest-
room mirror in which he sees ash flecks
in the pits of carnations’ blooms.


