A favorite conception of death

Aboard an old wooden ship
like a pirate galleon
there is a room of old men
getting stoned in a circle
joints expertly rolled
decades of practice
talking intermittently
listening to jazz records
like the Flo Boys next door in college

They let me visit as I liked
when one night I stumbled on the room
I saw a friend
a young man who disappeared
who’d taken a liking to spending more and more time there
maybe he stumbled on it like me but never left

He knew me when I came in
but time passed differently
like a record on loop
or getting changed out one by one