Fishbowl

It was the end of the '70's and everywhere brown:
my Nicholas from Eight is Enough bowl cut;
the worn floor mats in mom's Camaro; Lucifer,
our German Shepherd, when I combed his white fur
cocoa with a box of Nestle Quick;
the chapped leather couch where dad's pals would squeeze
side by side,
   their arms straight up the wall
whenever they'd stop jostling
for their strange tapered cigarettes.
They would suck, smile, pass, suck, smile, pass,
   then blow smoke,
   sometimes in rings to make my eyes light up.

I was often taunted with joints.
Snickering through trickles of beards,
my father's friends would hover tantalizing spliffs
as bait above my fingers
while I'd plead for just one puff.
Dad would size up mom
(at the kitchen sink or making supper).
   Smug, he never heard her objections.
   Instead he'd fetch the Zig-Zag box,
   its tiny orange flap emblazoned
      with the face of some mystical alchemist or gypsy.

From among the maze of dainty interfolded pages,
dad would pluck one thin sheet, craft a joint,
seal the seam with one long lick,
then make me promise not to let it drop.
Uninducted, I would cough, then race
   the bathroom gauntlet, the hallway
   longer than at bedtime,
      my throat on fire,
      the faucet stingy with cold water.

by Jason Steeves



Jason Steeves holds an MFA in Poetry from Lesley University . He works for the art department at Harvard, then spends his nights playing itsy-bitsy-spider with his triplet daughters and producing a documentary about drugs and poetry.