New Peer Pressure

I stare at glowing smoke burning by my finger tips.

I haven’t smoked a thing since training singer’s lips.

This jolly man passed a blunt like black Santa Claus

he applauds my freestyle on corruption in the law. There’s only one rule in this circle cypher moment:

we celebrate now together - that’s how we own it.

It's a privilege to be heard by men who have not;

I am not the enemy, since I also combat chaos.

I stare down at this gift of marijuana in the night

the brown paper contrasts how obvious I'm white.

The content of my character rather than my skin

makes me worth a listen among African-Americans.

My heart beat thumps above this concrete street -

I place the blunt in the crease where my lips meet;

then puff without huffing, I pretend to smoke it in…

I hope they don’t see I don't inhale: like Bill Clinton.