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.

Freestyle rapping.

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.