Dime Bag

I lie on my hard bed wearing nothing but black socks, flicking snot from my finger out the glassless barred window. Atop of me an old Mexican blanket faded by the sun. I’ve been carrying the savior of a blanket for years rolled affixed to my pack. It was my sole possession the night I left Reina’s closet apartment. A crusted rooster calls to the humid morning. I’ve been awake since 4:00am with the shakes and a rumbling sickness in my stomach. The morning finds me missing 1000 pesos. A radio loud and steady when the landlord awakens greets my day.
Miguel always said speed was the hardest to quit. I had met Miguel in the center of town, we both frequented the zocalo at night to drink alone and write sad poetry. That was the plan to sit alone yet it seldom ended that way. Miguel carried a dime bag of weed in his back pocket. It was flattened from sitting in the park on hard concrete benches that got cold at night. There he sat nightly puffing on a joint. It may have been the same joint night after night for he only ever had two puffs then put it away after snubbing the little red cherry that had only begun to glow. I guess that’s what brought me to meet him.