and sat with me
on a bench;
a bottle in
each hand.
We laughed
and ate
chili dogs
and Twinkies
and smacking
our lips
guzzled down
cool white wine.
We rolled
cigarettes
and brushed
loose tobacco
from our laps,
scratching
a pointed ear
he said "just
like the hill
people do it
back home".
Next morning
telling
dirty jokes
over yesterdays
dirty dishes
scattered
across a flea
market table
with one leg shorter
than the others,
we rest
comfortable in
each others
company while
a nameless girl
slips guiltily
from the spare
bedroom,
hair in disarray.
Slapping the
table I let
loose a howl
and Bacchus
tells the story
again of
eating grapes
in a mexican jail.
