Hanque O . . . - Weed

1971

Every time
the joint comes your way
you wave it off

with a slow twist of your wrist.
You smoke your cigarettes,
drink the wine,

but pass on the weed.
Through bleary,
red-rimmed eyes,

through the haze,
you look so titillating
with your poise and your pose.

And how, through your unshuttered eyes,
are we perceived?

Hanque O . . .

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/weed-14/