A Bum & a Hooker Walk into a LiquorStore

Hurrying to the shoddy fridge,
the one with the forty ounce beers,
Reggie leaves an invisible trail of squalor.

His lady friend waits at the counter
for her Newport Lights, smacking
her tongue against uneven teeth,
checking for gunk beneath hot pink nails.
A tattoo on her left wrist reads “Miss Thang”,
something which she clearly treasures.

As an observer I’m amused;
as a human being I’m disgraced.
Nevertheless I treat them as equals,
only cringing slightly at the crumpled
brown dollar bills that smell like Reggie,
of old urine and stale alcohol.

I’m less than surprised when Miss Thang
searches her D-cups for a sweat-soaked twenty—
wallets were never stylish in the City.