A poem for tea heads

I sit in Lees.     At 11:40 PM with
Jimmy the pusher. He teaches me
Ju Ju.
           Hot on the table before us
shrimp foo yong, rice and mushroom
chow yuke.
         Up the street under the wheels
of a strange car is his stash—The ritual.
We make it.     And have made it.
For months now together after midnight.
Soon I know the fuzz will inter-
rupt will arrest Jimmy and
I shall be placed on probation.
                                               The poem
does not lie to us. We lie under its
law, alive in the glamour of this hour
able to enter into the sacred places
of his dark people, who carry secrets
glassed in their eyes and hide words
          under the roofs of their mouth.