the weed

the boy was gobsmacked
well hardly a boy
looked older than my doctor
my dentist
the policeman down the road
he was probably near forty
tall and lanky
with long curly hair
portraying a wildness
disavowed by body language
which hinted more at
shyness and withdrawal

"i have never met...
a woman of your age...
who wasn't a nun...
who has never tried pot"

i am out of africa
we call the weed dagga
it grows everywhere
true...
i was a child of the sixties
grew up with hippies vietnam
manfred mann and
the beatles
perhaps i was too well trained
my mother a fearsome woman
found alchohol an abomination
if i felt the need to rebel
i would skip the passionfruit
and lemonade
with temporary sophistication
order port and lemon
most daring
until another informed me
that prostitutes drank
port and lemon

i smoked and hoped
that teeth brushed
with a liberal dash
of colgate
before saying goodnight
would conceal my nicotine habit
forever

dancing and late nights
cigarettes and baby cham
i considered myself a wild
somewhat wicked woman
no need for drug enduced extras
at fifty six i made a friend
who smoked pot
i was amazed and truth to tell
somewhat shocked
not the sort of pastime i would expect
in a grandmother
somewhat innocent you might think
not for long
determined to make up for my former
lack of drug experience
i requested a drag

"forget it...
no way am i ...
corrupting you"

unlikely story more like
no wish to waste good weed
on a novice who will probably
feel nothing but nausea
and ruin
an otherwise excellent evening
i was left to smoke my cigarettes
in a room heavyladen
with the smell of burning dope
watch my friend disappear
down the yellow brick road
of harshly inhaled pot

Copyright © 2011 by Eryll Oellermann