Marijuana Peddlers

They have no skyscraper offices,
Neither a backyard factory
All day long,
Watchful like cats
Expectant like fishermen,
The women stand
In that backstreet,
Which smells of death
From all walks of life,
To them,
Men and women are drawn,
As if bewitched,
For just a tiny twist
of khaki paper,
To spiral them endlessly,
To worlds unexplored,
For a drag
Of intoxicating bliss,
At nightfall,
In that streets,
Where a boy was shot dead,
Another knifed to death,
Like little drug barons,
They count the dollars.
(c) P. Chidavaenzi, 2010