Mid Morning Desert

Droning. Bad accident breath. Scar flushed face. Pushing a cart with stolen bread. Carrying a bag of rubbish, wrappers and plastic. Can’t stop a taxi so stops to scab a durry, or atleast a few sucks. Gaps in teeth filled with stale yeast. Shaking hand shivers change forward in payment. Deny it and hand him and lighter and an orange backed five minute friend. Think about how we never know where we’ll end up, or where we’re going. Even if you’re sure you know, atoms and thoughts are always shifting. He points to a crushed up woman, peering wrinkles out from under a scrunched up yellow scarf. There’s an old television in her cart. They’re going to hock it as there’s nothing happy on anymore anyway. Hope he gets a few bucks for it.

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