On the days when my only friend
came to visit her mom
her mom would clean herself up
they’d sit tight knotted
table in between
and chain smoke
Later
after her mother left the table to shoot up
my friend would ring my bell
we’d head to the train trestle and sit
with legs dangled over the bridge
smoke all the cigs she clipped from her mom
we threw rocks at the top
of the freight train
as it whipped by
scream mother fucker
no one to see
hear us
or care
When we returned
we would find her mother
curled up in the corner
drool running down her chin
My friend would be on the juice by eighteen
and prostituting from the same
two rooms her mother crawled
through half dead
to be carted out—half a veg
sent to another rehab
When we kissed
atop that weed-filled bridge
the train speeding so fast
under our worn sneakers
we didn’t realize the electricity
that ran through us
charged our limbs
melded us together
as heavyweights
we just didn’t see it
coming straight for us
more of your poems!
A terrible but inevitable equation= Juice and prostituting