In the Evening
Dad and I pass a waning joint back-and-forth.
When he holds it to his face and takes a drag
the glow aligns with the red planet just above
our horizon and beyond the lake’s dark waters.
Smoke slips into the night sky like white milk
spilled upon a black table, smearing constellations
into new shapes that no one else will ever see.
I love this: sitting beneath it all, listening to
Zeppelin, and waiting as forever comes crashing.
