“you know what we need right now Mikey?
a joint.”
he said it naturally,
as if it were less his thought, and
more his reaction,
like he meant it;
meant it louder than the honking of the passing street busses;
and louder than the laughter of school girls
impressing school boys.
i’d just finished telling him why
i needed to turn down his offer to lunch,
my stomach,
had been bothering me all weekend,
and it were no different
as we pulled into the parking lot near the largest
outdoor shopping mall in san salvador;
my bus stop;
i just wanted to get back to the farm and sleep.
“god put the treasure in the soil,
you just remember that,”
and i would,
i told him so,
truth was i wished i did smoke weed,
just so i wouldn’t have to tell him no
when he cared so deeply,
but i try to follow the laws i can,
“they don’t know what people really need Mikey,
they ban this here, god-given thing,
meanwhile capitalism is a free market;
and the devil struts about,
shouting: look at the cathedrals!
just look at 'em Mikey,
all around us
pointing to heaven like middle fingers.
jesus christ,
at least we have the cigars,
grab the cigars Mikey,
really,
i bought them in Guatemala.”
and we did have cigars,
old cigars
dried out from a glove box
and summer,
but the difference didn’t phase me,
it seldom does,
our gap of forty years
bridged by sunday sun and smoke billows;
i rested my arm on the downed window
and forgot about my stomach,
i wouldn't forget the day.
a year later Eddy Brooks,
you’re still a good man in my book.
