Poem of the Week | February 10, 2009

Dearly beloved Katie Smoak, cheerleader at Hickory High, on-again-off-
again best friend. How did she smell like that? I saw Katie Smoak with the
roll-on bottle of essential oil though she refused to tell me which oil was
essential. “Get your own,” she said. I saw her roll it on her wrists, up her
arms, down her shirt. Katie Smoak bought hers from the head shop where
her boyfriend, a lanky guy named Beef Jones, bought his bongs. Katie
Smoak was rumored to screw the gym teacher in his Mazda Miata before
the bell for first period. That early in the morning? “Katie Smoak is always
raging for it,” they said. “What I wouldn’t give to do Katie Smoak.” “I’m
calling because I heard you were friends with Katie Smoak.” “I’d never
cheat on you with that whore Katie Smoak.” “Are you going to the party at
Katie Smoak’s?” “I might have cheated on you with that bitch Katie
Smoak.” She smelled like musk, vanilla, magnolia, cinnamon and none of
these. I tried a dozen oils and still never smelled like her. “I like to think,”
she said, “that one day Beef Jones will be walking his wife to the Victoria’s
Secret, getting something to spice up their defunct sex life, and he’ll smell a
woman who smells like me, and he’ll think of me, and remember with
deep sorrow and regret how I used to afford him the pleasure of sitting on
his face.” Katie Smoak was lovely.