Embers

The radiator kicks and groans at four.

I saw a kid today by the bus stop bench,

wearing that same stiff denim, the collar frayed,

looking like he was waiting for a life to start.

I remember the smell of the stolen pack,

the way the filter tasted like cheap salt.

I shoved the lit end into my pocket

when my mother turned the hall light on.

The polyester melted into a jagged black mouth.

I wore that jacket for a year,

keeping my hand over the hole

so no one would see the plastic teeth of the burn.