my first smoke

by Steven J. Serafiani

was on top of a ship,
the big easy,
off the atlantic,
surveying patrons,
watching chips,
fresh from separation,
the one I moved thousands of miles with,
co-worker offered,
newport,
hundred miles from freeport,
used to be the family spokesperson,
now apathetic,
rested the filter between my twenty two year old lips,
tasted the menthol,
smelled the tobacco,
fire sparked,
first drag,
felt nauseous,
then two,
then three,
then four,
then forever.

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