Sitting on the curb
outside a gas station
a pack of Marlboro Reds in one hand
and a lighter in the other
the sun begins to disappear behind the city,
the sky turning an ashy orange through the smog
a perfect urban evening.
The whores begin arriving
while i'm still stuck to the curb
and they give me a few looks as they strut past
but neither of us really care about the other.
They seem mocking if anything,
staring at the kid on the street
with a still unopened pack of cigarettes
and no clue what to do with them.
They're a gateway drug
maybe they'll ruin my life
the doorway to a life of trouble
of many nights sitting on streets.
Maybe I'll become one of those
delinquents who spends their eternity in a little jail cell
and never even left their hometown.
Maybe I'll become someone
the prostitutes don't frown at
and maybe that's an accomplishment
but my mom probably wouldn't be too proud.
Maybe I'll smoke the cigarettes
and die of lung cancer before it even matters.
Or maybe I'll die right here on the street,
my fingers so clumsy I'll drop the lighter
before it even lights all the way
and the fire will hit my shoes
and climb up my pants
all the way to my hair
maybe it'll light the cigarette on the way.
And I'll go out in flames
the most exciting thing I will ever do
I'll burn a hole in someone's memory.
Maybe i'll put the pack in one pocket
and the lighter in the other
and I'll make it home before curfew,
maybe even in time for dinner
and if my parents ask where I've been
I won't tell them.
And that'll be my only act of rebellion.