The cigarette vending machine can tell
I’m not old enough. It scans my skin and bones,
calculates, refuses to vend. No machine
accepts my invitation to prom. Their default
screen flashes help yourself and I allow myself
the clunk of one orange Crush, each sip
he crushes me, he crushes me not—a small difference
like the one between getting stoned and stoning. Confusing verbs
like lay, lie, laid—getting and not doing is vending
machine sex logic. It’s April and it snows
all over the plum blossoms. Everywhere
girls put on jewelry and corsages.
Some of the blowsy red tulips
have black dusted throats.
