Sitting at the club

looking at some

so so honeys

wondering how many

will be going home

to and giving their

money to drug dealers

who torture kittens

or beat up strippers

who love them.

then the buddha on

my other shoulder

tells me that maybe

im just spitting sour

grape seeds again. But no

im no young man now

and this shot of reality doesn’t

bother me (except the part

about the kittens) like it used

to. I get up to leave but

before I do, I tip the

door boy, smile, and ask

just how many

of these ladies

go home to drug

dealers. Not expecting

a reply, I head for

the door, but before

I do, he looks me dead

in the eye and without

a smile says, “Every

single one

of them.” Then

the buddha

on my shoulder

smiles and

I do too.

Please buy my book “Mail-Order Annie: a Story of Passion and Compassion.” On Kindle and Amazon

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