"N.Y.C. & S.F. - Park Bench."
Lying on a park bench, dreaming drunkenly, on bottles of Bicardi 151.
In a stupor, whispering senseless, secret nothings, confidentially, to herself.
Bright, white hair and yellow, rotting, decaying tooth.
She is awake and staring at the sky incoherently.
Clutching on plastic bags and the bench's handrails to sit up.
Expressionless, she gets up and walks on one of the twisted, curving, paths.
This will get her nowhere quickly.
Taking her time.
Our worlds spin and race at their frantic pace.
So only those with money have a real life's space.
The chief has smashed the fenced window to escape.
By Jon Billet 04/05/15
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