Note on Enying a Cigarette (Kelsey Carmody Wort)

All of the time I spent leaning

across a table trying to listen in

on conversations that were not

mine wasn’t time wasted, I know

that. But there’s just something

about the thought of being

addressed by someone else

that makes my breath hitch.

I told Charlie that I would take

up smoking if it meant spending

more time with people.

Don’t be an idiot, he said

and grabbed his coat.

I don’t want to be an idiot,

I want to hold a lighter

near someone’s mouth. Move

closer as we agree that it’s too

damn cold out here, knees

chattering.  If asked

to go outside and stand next

to a person for ten minutes,

I want to say yes.


Kelsey Carmody Wort lives in New York City and holds an MFA in poetry from Purdue University. She has words in journals, magazines, text messages, tweets, and various discarded diaries. You can follow her on Twitter @kelseyraejepsen. 


image: MM Kaufman