Smokers - Faith Wilson

Pink smokers taste like the inside
Of my Mum’s bag.
An unfortunate few from
An absentmindedly opened packet
find themselves
hanging about with the other
derelicts of her rucksack
crumbs stick to hanging out
in the corners
an antisocial bunch,
chewing gum wrappers 
social butterflies,
and coins, five cent pieces
the occasional fifty,
You’re dreamin’
Loud as church bells
So you have to be sneaky
Or Mum will snap you when 
You try to pinch a few.

Contributor's Note

My name is Faith Wilson. I am half Samoan, half NZ European and I mostly like to write about my sustainedly fractured identification with multiple cultural ideas/ideals/identities. I grew up in Hamilton but currently live in Wellington.


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