parenthood

slowly, delicately,
after turning up the music,
she leans over the table,
sits down, and takes
out a small bag of an
illegal substance, weed,
grass, pot, whatever,
and without so much as
a glance to the door,
the window, or me, she
proceeds to roll herself
a fat joint, sprinkling
the dirt brown weed,
vaguely green onto the
thin piece of paper.
expertly, she licks the
ends and twists, before
lighting up and taking a
long hard toke, holding
the sweet, acrid smoke
inside her lungs until
she turns pink, then
exhales it towards my face,
here, she says, and i
shake my head no, suit
yourself, more for me,
she taps her chest, and
coughs, then takes another
deep hit, sliding back
into her chair and closing
her eyes. finally exhaling,
she looks at me and says,
i don't know what's wrong with
my kids, they don't listen
to me, they seem to be out
of it half the time,
they're doing badly in school,
they hang around with
the worst crowd, i think
they both have tatoos
and shelly came home with
a stick pin in her eyebrow
last night. i found an empty
pint of southern comfort
in jimmy's closet. jesus,
the car has more dents in it
than i can count, i try
to be a good mom, i really
do, she takes another
long drag from the now small
joint, then picks up a pair
of tweezers on the table
to relight the small butt,
inhaling it from under her
nose. i need to go talk to
the counselor at the school
tomorrow. these kids are wild
these days, they don't listen.
i actually have to hide my
stash now, because i know
they'll be in it.
can you believe that? it
just seems like yesterday
i was pushing them around
in strollers.