The late sun painted the sky in streaks of pink and gold across the expanse of Ocean Beach, San Diego. Duke squatted low, weighing his next shot, green bocce ball burning in his palm. His fiancée stood at the far end of the court, arms crossed, sporting a grin sharp and sinister enough to cut diamonds.
She had the upper hand—once again—and Louie, his loyal hound, sprawled in the dust like an old Sicilian uncle after a big lunch, offering the occasional “harumph” pretending to referee, but mostly napping.
“You realize you’re down three balls, right?” she called, her voice carrying just enough smugness to sting.
“Down three now,” Duke said, feeling the weight in his hand and in his chest. “But history favors the underdog. Just ask Trainwreck.”
She arched an eyebrow. “We talking bocce or weed?”
“Both,” he smirked, and cracked open the jar of Blueberry Trainwreck sitting on the bench. A rush of Pine-Sol and Fabuloso came pouring out like an aerosolized chemical peel.
Blueberry Trainwreck by POET: A Blast from the Past
For Duke, cracking open the jar was like opening a time capsule. No neon-green influencer bait here. There were muted, forest green with brown pistils, and a trichome frost that sang instead of screamed. Old-school bud. The kind you’d find in a Deadhead’s vest pocket next to a half-lit joint and a worn-out tape of American Beauty. The album cover, somehow less legible than when they bought it.
His fiancée wrinkled her nose. “Jesus, that smells like cleaning day at my abuela’s house.” Louie thumped his tail, as if in agreement, before promptly sneezing at the fumes. Breaking the nug in half, Duke lit up, exhaled slowly, and passed it across. She took a cautious hit, lips curling. “Black licorice?”
“Licorice with a splash of Lemon Pledge,” Duke corrected, grinning. “And wait for it…” Duke, staring at his fiancée, was patiently waiting for her to finish his thoughts.
When she just stared at him with stoned incredulity, he thought he should just come out and say it. “Cola! Like a Ricola lozenge? Haven’t tasted that in a strain in years.”
She laughed, coughing. “You’re stoned. This tastes more like NyQuil had a baby with Fanta.”
“Character, babe. That’s what you taste.”
The POET High
The high crept in subtly, fizzy–like soda bubbles lifting cobwebs out of his brain. His body hummed, just enough to anchor him to the ground. She bent down to toss her ball, graceful, deliberate. “You feel anything?” he asked.
“Not too heavy, not too heady. Perfect bocce weed,” she said. “Social, sharp, keeps me in the game. But, I feel like I’m about to beat you with or without weed.” She let her ball fly, perfect placement. Louie barked once, as if awarding the point.
Duke lined up his throw, the buzz coursing through his limbs. “Legacy doesn’t have to hammer to be felt,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but Louie could hear him. “Sometimes it just… rolls steady.”
The ball knocked hers off the mark, landing close to the pallino. Duke exhaled, clearly satisfied with himself. “See?” he said, turning to her with a cocky grin. “Blueberry Trainwreck believes in me.”
She shook her head, laughing. “You’re insufferable. Roll your next ball, Hemingway.”
Louie sighed, tail flicking the dust, like he’d seen this battle a hundred times before.
Learn more about POET’s Blueberry Trainwreck here.
