This is Brazil
From a fifth storey bachelor’s window, pondering shadows in the car park below, Johnny opens another can.
I stuff another pipe.
We talk about our trip to Brazil and how great it would’ve been had we gone; Johnny turns up the radio.
I take the first hit.
Old girlfriends swing by in our conversation, most of them giving us the finger, mind you. Johnny dabs at his tears.
I pass him the pipe.
Dusk-scalpels are slicing through the curtains now, scraping over coffee table dust, through Irish coffee stains, and cut open Johnny’s frown.
The neighbours are at it again, arguing: he accuses her of seeing someone else, she tells him correct, it’s your fucking sister.
Johnny taps out the pipe in the ashtray, says he has to do someone a favour and throws on his jacket; says take it easy, buddy.
Johnny’s shadow tiptoes into the evening, a car alarm screams and a gunshot cries.
I convince myself this is Brazil.