A Day in the Life
Life is bills and payments to be made, ones that I cannot pay due to lack of work; lack of work leaves you bleeding pulverized in a Tampa Bay shanty town; drunk off money that you either stole from a clueless passerby or panhandled from a kind hearted person, kind enough to know that you would take the money they gifted you and run straight to the package store to buy a cheap six pack of beer and some smokes if you really panhandled superbly that day.
Kids running past me on the way home from school, blinded by youth and naivety, poke faces at the homeless and downtrodden basket people. They see me as I spit on the ground, through gapped yellow brown teeth; I do an odd take on an old Irish jig that I learned in a pub in Scotland back in my 20's.
The kids are no longer poking fun; they run away like a frightened pack of youthful coyote pups, they vanish over the horizon line, down past the Baptist church, down past the shops and bars and English pub, the deli with the best pressed Cuban sandwiches on earth, they run past the hooker named Lola wearing a pair of electric blue nylons with runs and moth holes eaten clear through.
Lola laughs and throws her track lined arms up towards the cloudless skies; God shakes his head and turns away from his creations run amuck, in disgust.
I finish my last beer and light up a smoke. Walking towards Lola I offer her one and she snatches it; I light it and laugh, then I walk on down the uneven sidewalks of the city and look for a place to call home for the night.
Portrait of Lola -- Chris Denovan