Soiled

If I had the soil, I would be stretched out like a snake on a bed of warm grass. Something I wanted to write about but I forgot what it is...

The Old Timers on the corner store stoop, rubbing their "scratch off" lotto tickets and smoking their cancer sticks. Reminiscing when times were tougher and hands were just starting to get calloused. Those days, when the scratch offs meant more than a shot at early retirement, they meant groceries, food in the pot, a crock for every day of the week. Ham hocks and greens and a few brews.

Maybe even something nice to enjoy with the wifey. Like some Thunderbird or strawberries dipped in Moet with Keith Sweat bangin' on the sub woofer. With little ass speakers in a little ass room with an electric heater fueling the air. Big, gold hoop earrings jangling as stilettos step through the door. Photo credit: G.C.M.