A story soaked in bong water
The yelling again. I can hear it. A few “F” bombs. Some other curse words. It happens regularly. Mother to son. Like that Langston Hughes poem. Always happens when I am in my groove. The boy must have done something stupid again for her to yell like that.
Two flights down, in the sub basement of the house, I hear some version of it. I can’t tell what it is about…