The rumbled and crumpled.
The arched backs ache..
Turned in on themselves sitting
At the oak bar.
Each look is a desperate scream.
A scream for survival in a cannibal world.
I’m sipping on my scotch
The morning broke in like a thug.
Smashing me in the head with a crow bar.
I watch Howard Dent the bar owner as he counts the till.
Each dollar, each red cent.
He trusts me.
His fingers are fat like hot dogs and the bills stick to his greasy fingers.
He has to shake some of them free.
He’s a large man. By me saying large I don’t me fat. I mean LARGE.
Fuckin fat ass.
Food runs away from him.
He knows me.
He lets me in before he opens.
Well along with a few others.
“Say, Harold what the fuck are you doing back here?”
He barks at me.
I know to him this his way of saying.
"Nice to see ya."
“Where the fuck else would I go!”
I yell back.
“You fuckin smell!”
God I love Monday Mornings.