lying on our backs,
staring at the sunset caught in-between bricks,
we pass a joint,
soggy from our lips,
the acrid taste of backwoods leaving burnt echoes in our lungs.
Down the hill a few men have gathered around in a circle,
playing with the hip-hop beats bouncing from their speaker.
I look over at you and I see you grinning.
“Black boy joy,” you say simply,
grabbing the joint from my fingertips.
I blow out the smoke I had been holding in,
letting the setting sun get covered in a smoky haze,
if only for a moment.