I’m wondering who’s left reading
The Caucasian Chalk Circle
how many others think it a rest home for racist magicians.
What does it matter? Probably nothing, we evolve.
From the circle to the wheel of fortune;
all of us laughing very silently, developing our habits.
I was waiting for The Boy to come home,
this was some years ago.
He’d taken the motorcycle to buy heroin.
Some hours later I was pacing
another man was getting restless;
it was his money after all.
The Boy came back
cold and apologizing for the time gone.
He’d been waiting for the weight
to work itself through
a dealer’s digestive tract.
As I watched him unwrap the package
and start to break it out onto a piece of re-inforced glass
I could see the funnier side of such a bleak damn business.
Later, as it ran through me
and I thought I was dying (so long had it been)
I couldn’t remember what it was I’d once found funny.