California Story

by Dion O’Reilly

So here’s one about how I smoked
too much pot in high school, smoked
at twilight, next to the cool creek
behind Quik Stop, smoked at break,
near the soccer field, straddling a drain pipe
I named Buckaroo. I hotboxed at lunch
in a ’65 Chevy, so punked with smoke
our throats choaked. I smoked
after school with a kid who was sweet
on me and wild
as a mustang. I smoked
on weekends at Sewer Peak
watching tubular waves
fall in slow mo
as I fried skin off my nose,
and gazed in wonder at my freckles —
cheetah skin, fine blond hairs
on skinny thighs, feet bare
because I couldn’t quite
figure out flip flops or how to get home. Simple
story. No twisted syntax, no hotshot metaphors
turning bic lighters to stars. None of the reasons
I needed such lawless joy, sent
from the oily mind of a plant. Just sun, heat,
the good stink
entering my mind like questions
I’d never asked myself before.