He comes in out of blasting rain.
His windbreaker’s broken zipper,
And a soggy Subway Sandwich,
Pauses for a deep rasp of air.
‘You have to knock at the door,’ a
Solitary stranger points out,
And leers from the landing shadows
As he eyes the man, judging him.
‘I know you fucking idiot!’
Comes a reply. The strangers
Back straightens as he corks
A bottle of rum in his coat.
Just then, the door opens a
Crack, and an old woman peers out.
‘I’ll let you in.’ she whispers at
Once, and slams the door; soon,
Inside an apartment that smells
Of unknown varieties of
Flowers, and a familiar bitter,
Verdant scent, of marijuana.
‘You got it?’ she wheezes and rubs
Her nose. He smiles quickly and
Sets down a small paper bag on
A workbench. She waits until he
Leaves, locking the door behind and
He disappears over a fence.
Gloating, she slips the contents in
A fridge: black-market Robitussin.
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