#7. CONTACT HIGH
Early evening.
On the bench to my left a man surreptitiously lights a joint.
Hands cupped down between his legs. No inhaling necessary to get it lit.
His averted eyes say he knows it’s against the law. Not the joint itself.
The smoking, banned in all New York City parks.
On the bench to my right, a skateboarder brazenly lights a blunt the size of a Cuban robusto cigar.
I think I’ll just sit between them for a while.
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