I didn’t smoke, but I wanted to
steal the cigarettes resting
on the table, resting
from my uncle’s lips.
No one watched, they were all drunk,
Slurring stories about Mexico, congratulating
my cousin for his second birthday.
My uncle told me to never do drugs.
And if I did, I was to invite him.
My father told me crossing the border
Is not what it used to be.
And they referred to the United States as Tio Sam.
The cigarettes still out in the open.
What could possibly prevent possibility?
Night would make use of my dark skin
to hide me with the trees.
My hand reached and pulled
one out of the box. But where
was the lighter, the flame