CLOVE CIGARETTES

I didn’t know what I was doing wrong.
“You’ve got it upside down,” Kim said. I’d seen
the bad kids hold it that way back at school.
By “it” she meant the lighter, not the cloves.

“You’ve got it upside down,” Kim said. I’d seen.
Could I inhale her savoir-faire? Not yet.
By “it” she meant the lighter knot, the loves
that held, or seemed to hold, for Kim and Mel.

Could I inhale their savoir-faire? Not yet:
I had all summer to try. The concrete dock
that held, or seemed to hold, for Kim and Mel
could waver or blur to ribbons in that dry heat.

I had all summer to try the concrete dock,
meander or sidle or listen my way into their
exquisite nonchalance. Kim’s tossed-back hair
could waver or blur to ribbons in that dry heat.

Meander? or sidle? Or listen my way into their
clique, lean on the bicycle rack and say nothing at all?
Exquisite nonchalance: Kim’s tossed-back hair,
Melanie’s smoky eye, her smooth nails’ long

clicks’ lien on the bicycle rack could say nothing at all,
or nothing I understood. Somewhere I’d see,
in Melanie’s smoky eye, her smooth nails’ long
dismissals, a way to be when I got home,

if not to be understood. This summer I’d see.
I’d show without telling. Their poses gave memorized goals,
my missals, plans A and B for when I got home,
my silence a kind of patience. I wish I’d let

myself just tell them. Suppose in some memory’s gaol
I didn’t know what I was doing wrong,
my patience an unkind silence. Should I have left
my life on hold? What if I never went back to school?