the night i started smoking

Becca Wild
i was looking for someone i never found tonight. first i was 
choking on my need for him, sterile and uninterested in anything else,
 threw on my boots and tried to be a cowboy downhill to town. 
the further my hands shoved into my jeans pockets, the deeper my 
kick, the shorter my attention span and governance of my thoughts. 
the place on my stomach where my jeans button walked ahead 
of me, bodiless. made it to main street, with her streetlamps glowing 
in the shapes of crosses, long-haired girls hugging their goosebump elbows
 and wobbling past in their clicking high heels, cell phones glowing and 
snapping like turtles, flyers tapering in the new autumn wind like many thin
 hands clapping the wall. i crossed my ankles on the stoop. not 
that iíve ever smoked before, but I wanted to hold something burning. 
i wanted a transformation to take place in my hands, tobacco to 
fire to smoke; i wanted that much reality in my control. so i went 
to mobil and exchanged a twenty dollar bill for a turquoise box
 of american spirits and a wad of cash. i tucked the box in my 
pocket like a cassette tape and ran back to the stoop. took out 
a cigarette and lit it.