go on, it won't kill you

at thirteen,

in our thin leather coats,

they passed around

the cigarette

up on

the hill behind the Deale

Drive

apartments.

it was cold and wet,

Christmas break.

i said no,

no thanks.

they looked at me

and laughed.

go ahead,

they said, it won't

kill you.

one puff.

so i did.

my eyes teared, my

lungs burned.

Bobby Bates handed me

a beer to wash

it down,

popping the tab,

it was my last drag

on a cigarette,

and that was that.