Your doctor says you’re not
supposed to smoke the MAGA
apple, though you can get
the necessary equipment
to vaporize it at a handful
of new dispensaries around
the city. You ponder
how difficult it would be
to drop a few seeds, grow
your own on the down low,
maybe make a few extra bucks
from the locals with no scripts
and a whole bed full of Confederate
couture. There’s a lot to be said
for complicity when all the colors
that matter are green, green,
green, and Granny Smith red.