A poem for tea heads

I sit in Lees.     At 11:40 PM with

Jimmy the pusher. He teaches me

Ju Ju.

           Hot on the table before us

shrimp foo yong, rice and mushroom

chow yuke.

         Up the street under the wheels

of a strange car is his stash—The ritual.

We make it.     And have made it.

For months now together after midnight.

Soon I know the fuzz will inter-

rupt will arrest Jimmy and

I shall be placed on probation.

                                               The poem

does not lie to us. We lie under its

law, alive in the glamour of this hour

able to enter into the sacred places

of his dark people, who carry secrets

glassed in their eyes and hide words

          under the roofs of their mouth.