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of beer they’ve apparently consumed
since breakfast. The smell of cheap
brew, mixed with stale tobacco,
gags me slightly. “Uh, Dad.
You sure you’re good to drive?”
Damn straight. Why wouldn’t
I be? As if to prove he’s too
damn straight, he pulls out
a joint, hands it to Kortni.
Light that, would ya, babe?
Gotta keep my eyes on the road.
Just perfect. Can I get high
from secondhand pot smoke?
“Uh, Dad? My asthma?”
Kortni torches the blunt
anyway. We’ll just open all
the windows. You’ll be okay.
They’re smoking. I’m steaming,
despite the fact that it’s pretty
damn cold, moving freeway-speed
with all the windows dropped.
Whatever. Usually I don’t think
much about Kortni at all.
Right now I’m thinking how
much she resembles a Pekingese,
double-inhaling pot smoke
up her smashed-in nose, snorting
a little with each exhale. I bet
she’s one hellacious snorer.
As Dad’s girlfriends go, I guess
