Killing ten minutes is murder
I miss cigarettes every day, but they are expensive and bad for your health. My buddy, who died of a brain tumor, smoked right up until the end. That's fair. Short of accidentally stepping in front of a bus, she knew how she was going, and it wasn't tobacco. Sometimes it took ten minutes for her to communicate she wanted a smoke, then somebody had to wheel her outside, and so on. I admire the hell out of that. She wasn't wasting any time. A few folks light up each year to commemorate her death, but I can't. I'm an addict.
Megan Volpert lives in Atlanta, where she teaches high school English. She is the author of four books on communication and popular culture, most notably about Andy Warhol. The poem printed here is forthcoming in Only Ride (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2014). Volpert is Co-Director of the Atl Queer Lit Fest and is currently researching the American bicentennial. Predictably, meganvolpert.com is her website.