A stranger in his forties stops me
on the street for a light.
I pause to pass my Bic
and he shoves a pack of Reds
in my hand after sparking his smoke.
"Take them," he says
like he's known me for years.
"I'm hanging out with my girlfriend soon
and can't be caught with them on me."
"Been there," I confess, shoving the
Cowboy Killers into the breast pocket
of my denim work shirt.
I thank him and proceed to the entrance
of my apartment building
slightly more satisfied
with the state of the human race
even though they're not my flavor.
Anyone want a pack of Marlboros?
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