He handed me a cigarette
in that cave of foliage,
the same woods we played in
some ten years earlier.
He wasn’t saying much
between puffs and staring off
which was easier than catching up
on the forever since I moved away.
His house was the darkest I can remember:
cigarette butts on every counter,
Burnt pots and torn upholstery,
and heavier silence than this.
His older brother had a camaro
and a mullet and fangs and threats.
His mother worked at SevenEleven.
His father was a ghost.
We were best friends back then
when he came over to my house
to play Atari on my clean couch
and make snacks in my immaculate kitchen
Now I’m just smoking his cigarette,
too big for this small patch of forest,
feeling like an intruder and wondering
about the gravity of smoke.