Getting On
Long since, a matter of mere weeks,
I had turned my back
on the satties
with pills
or bush,
powder
or tabs of paper
you had a habit of selling me
in a lane in the backstreets
of Westmead.
I was clean. I was a baby fresh
from its morning bath.
But your pig eyes, eager with lust
for dealing to me,
spied me on the street
and you sidled up to me
all friendly, with
want some new shit?
I’ve got some really sick,
hectic shit
My momentary resistance
lasted but the obvious
and fleeting moment
until I handed you two twenties
and thrust a tiny plastic baggy
down my pants
getting on
getting gear
from my dealer
that my father calls
a pusher.
First published ZineWest 2016
