SHOOTING DOPE ON CHRISTMAS EVE

was so romantic
back in the day;
even the dealers
were especially nice
& generous: the bags
were fatter
& stronger
as if baby Jesus
was in the teaspoon.

The year was 1969
and I was a poet,
a philosopher,
a rogue, a
bullshit artist.
My courage
lasted til the veil
lifted every four hours
or so. By that time
we were sleeping: she
all soft and soapy;
me somewhere else
buying time
between rounds.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

SHE LOVED

shooting dope
and eating
Devil Dogs
and digging
White Light/White Heat.
She was
a handful.
She'd touch
D'Lugoff's balls
as he let us in
on Latin Night
Mondays at The Village Gate;
and placed a rose
on Simone's piano
because she wanted to.
She made her fix
by hustling
as a nude model
at SVA
but wouldn't fuck
the professor painter
of the class
no matter his name
or his threats.
Her name was Barbara
and she lived
on Pineapple Street
in Brooklyn Heights
and she died
before I could tell her
all she did for me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016