A Sunday Afternoon

A Sunday Afternoon

Sitting in a once white room
     Now yellow with the tar of cigarettes
           Red blinds drawn casting and orange glow on everything

I sit, with four junky whores
     And listen
           As they plan their day

When they're not looking
I glance up their dresses
      What was once veal
           Now ground hamburger
Stealing pills from their purses
     Some for now
           Some for later

As they begin to argue over stolen pills
I excuse myself and leave

I’ll make more selling those pills in a day
     Then they’ll make flipping that burger all week