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