Track Mangoes

Spencer stops the car,
The window downward rolling.
He scrambles to unbuckle his jeans
While a policeman approaches
In slow strides forward ambling,
His car behind us, red and blue flashing,
Just before he raps
His knuckles on the glass.
The belt comes off,
The buckle jangling.
Spencer reveals
A zip-loc bag,
Wrinkled and dusty,
Having been opened and sealed
A dozen times over.
He unbuttons his fly
And lifts the shirt above his navel,
Shoves the bag inside,
Releasing five coos in succession,
As if they were smoke rings
Ejected from his lips.

And what if I were the bag,
Shoved between the cheeks?
Coiled like a copper snake,
Or worse?
Will I be pulled from Spencer
Like a worm?
Pinched between a blue jay’s beak,
Its grip on me unyielding?
Or maybe I won’t be found at all,
Festering for a year.

Rap. Rap. Rap.
The knuckles say.

To opt to live inside my friend,
The dismal day to day,
I think I will admit to you
I’d do it anyway.