Paddy’s got some gren,
Frankie’s resting his chin
on his knees
hugged in to his chest,
outside the sky is red and purple
as his bruised eye.
Paddy’s rolling a big one
he stops and looks real hard:
Frankie, are ye gay?
There’s just the paper’s rustle
a lighter’s click, a drawn in breath
one long moment, then Frank says Aye.
Paddy lets go his blow
in one soft sigh:
Makes sense.