Remonstrance on Fire and Water

For Rusty, where ever you are my friend, be well

Two months clean
--for the most part--
until last night.

My friendly Vietnam vet called
with poison on his tongue.
"I know you want a taste, come with me,
we'll do it together my brother."

My resolve has been beaten down
through calls like this for weeks.
My body will no longer let my mind control.
I find myself driving, finding my way
through the twisting labyrinth of the gray city sameness.

He enters, covered in scales,
this friend of mine.
Whispering in my ear the directions:
turn left, two miles, turn right and wait.
The shadow pulls from a concrete wall,
trafficking his deleterious brew of fire --cocaine-- and water --heroin.

We travel toward the glow of urban lights
seeking the solace of an entryway.
"There it is." He susurruses,
pointing off into the zeroxed gloom.
Stop now; reverse slowly into the opening;
no parking 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. long enough for us to be on our way.
Five steps and we find ourselves unseen, veins exposed, ready.

The fiery torrent pounds into me
and I can feel the slow current of the opiates as they take control.
Contrasted with the white fire pulsing in my veins,
the ecstasy starts but something is different this time.
My heart is racing too fast; my breath is coming too short,
I flounder on the cracking concrete and fall to my knees.
"Help me friend!" I gasp as I descend.
As life seeps out of me, his laughter is all I can hear, his smile all I see.