Around the table,

we are crowded and glazed over,

searching for that missing doughnut hole

someone so carelessly inhaled,

all except me, the isolated one

who had been quarantined unjustly

from participating in the ceremony

due to what was referred to as an

inability to function as a member

of this hand-appointed tribe.

What in the world

was in my peace pipe

during that last go-round?

And who climbed up

that ancient Totem Pole and

proclaimed himself to be

“High Chief” and proceeded

to lower me into

ashes and dust,

and scalped me of my

smoking rights as stated

in the 1st Amendment

of Smokey Joe’s Laws

which we are supposed

to respect and abide by?

I mean, seriously?

Yet, I squat here with all

the other members

observing the ceremony

of hand-me-some-

more, and the aroma

begins to seep into my

open nostrils as I

fake an oncoming

sneeze, and the taste

completely fills my entire

insides, commonly known as

the Second Hand High.

Life is but a bowl of goofballs,

smoking squat-style

around a Totem Pole which

is off limits to a

bare-naked squaw.

What a shame.