Page 8 - Contrast1988Spring
P. 8
The Pusher
Wake and bake. One o'clock p.m.
The hot, scratching apparition
escapes the clear red cylinder
at the command of a lifted thumb.
Ahhhh, the first hit of the day.
It's always the best.
Billibong goes back behind the resin- and beer-stained
chair of memories,
rotting and aching under a shaded window.
I hope it goes through.
A pound from the fertile fields of Colombia
via Blacksburg.
A sheet and 'shrooms
from the soft, warm beaches of VA,
and clueless,
wide-eyed,
starving
customers
beeseeching ME again.
Answering the phone,
I listen for the nearly undetectable hum
of a bug within the nosey circuits of the receiver.
"I god destuv, and a liddle 'toot'
foe yo' time.
Come own by
whene yo' ine de neighbohud."
Click ...
yeah!
The snow don't fall free too often.
Maybe we'll crack it.
4 Contrast Spring 1988
