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Drug Deal

David Sapp

My passenger, Dave, contrived
a cryptic detour coming home
from Dandelion where we wove
hammocks, milked a cow, played
at being hippies, a commune
incongruently somewhere else
that spring of 1981 when Reagan
bluffed at Star Wars, Nancy said, “No,”
and Jim Brady was shot above the eye.
In my ’68 Ford, minutes turned
to hours out of my way, gas stations
and telephone poles less frequent.
Suddenly, somewhere west of Toronto
and north of Hamilton, I sat at a kitchen
table gaping at a drug deal. I don’t recall
their faces, the nice couple entrepreneurs,
all rapt focus upon the ritual business
between breakfast and lunch;
all focus upon the sweaty brick,
its dimensions perfect, mathematical,
a heady green hue, an entire alfalfa field
pressed into one, compact parcel;
all focus upon sticky slices glistening
on the scales. Eventually, after a nervous
journey down Queen Elizabeth Way,
beneath the high arc of the Peace Bridge,
we searched for mailboxes on unobtrusive
side streets to post Dave’s potent missives.

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