we had this odd friend
much older and wild in the eyes
the neighborhood kids and I
we’d go to his house hoping to score some weed
he always had weed
he also had three children
who he seemed to care little for

the moment we’d arrive
I’d catch a whiff of a much dreaded yet familiar scent
it was a cross between stale sweat and stale milk
it wasn’t pleasant but the free weed made it worth the trip
as soon as he sparked up we’d be fine, I thought
the smell of weed would cover it all up
and we wouldn’t even notice
the condition he kept the apartment in

his home was full of little broken things
and the sullen, little hearts of children
that shouldn’t have been there
none of us should have been there
I still wonder about those children
their dirty, little smiles haunt me to this day
uncared for, unwanted
tragically playing in their soiled filth
the mildly stinging scent of urine-packed diapers
sporadically reminding us of their tiny, dark souls
lingering around the thick, rising smoke
too young to live in the shadows of an eerie fog
so very oblivious to the void rushing in

eventually, I sobered up enough to realize that
you don’t party with the doomed
the middle aged weed man
with the three kids
living in filth
were too sad to return to
and the memory of their matching, toothless smiles
have stained me through my core