Two girls on the bed
passing a bottle of cheap wine
and a thin joint
somewhere between them.
I sit by the window
cracked open
letting the smoke out
or maybe letting it in.
the TV’s been talking to itself for an hour.
one of them checks her phone,
the other pulls her hair back,
they don’t know me,
not really.
outside, the neon sputters —
VACANCY.
always.
I think about my father —
the fists,
the sour breath,
the Sunday mornings with nothing to do
but face the punches
he would have hated this —
the girls,
the bottle,
the way the world turned out.
the rent’s due.
the country’s broke.
everyone’s a hustler now -
“do you want to be your own boss?”
just click here
they light another joint.
I watch the smoke
spin itself thin and vanish.
we are
unpaid actors
in somebody else’s play
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
