BY GRANT LOMELINO
Reminiscing of hookah smoke,
Where smiles are exchanged between the passing of the wand,
The customary tap of the wrist,
As the wand moves soul to soul,
A gesture that says I’m here, now, not by mistake.
Through the smoke lazily making the trek to the nearest window,
Are faces that know all the intimacy and tragedy in my life.
And I know theirs.
There is no fear to share or consume,
Just the gleeful riff of laughter
The playful jazz of storytelling.
The tobacco may dry out,
The smoke may drift away
But, don’t let the conversation die
I know no family,
This is my reunion.