The old woman is angry about her Newport lights— 
she’s out of them, smoked them all one by one. 
She goes through her carton so fast she’s on a program 
where we keep her packs for her but still she’s smoked 
her last for the week. She shares them with the other woman, 
gives them to her, the one who she stays up late with, 
the one she argues with and says she hates 
until they each have cigarettes once more, and then  
they show each other such a simple kindness:  
one will light it, and then they trade the cigarette
after each drag, sharing it until the last ember   
as if they are teenage girls underneath the Perseids
and stars, passing back and forth their hands 
brush and touch again as they cup a tender flame.