I should be tasting bitter
while sitting with Jack
on the dull blue carpet
of his dorm room. Three
other people
one boy two girls who
I don't know.
But my jaw isn't tight.
I talk as much
as I listen.
They get high in
the trees beside
Nitobe.
Pot smoke drifts
around us. They are loud
and I get hot needles
in my stomach
for two and a half
seconds.
The pricking
fades and I laugh
with them.
YOU ARE READING
Spiked Coffee
PoetryA collection of short stories, musings, and poetry. For poetic souls and those who like to analyze stories.
