The Bottom Feeders

The stripper who

looks like a Bratz doll

is already working

on a cracka’ when

I get to the bar,

so I’m glad to be

packing pen and

writing pad when I

sit down at the

short side of the bar

and start trying to write

but the free cheap

bank pen only gives

ink in fits and starts

before blowing up

like the laughter

of bankers. So I’m

glad when the bar

girl gives me hers.

It’s good to look busy

when the bottom-

feeder dancers start

sizing up my loneliness,

because the bottom one

slides over and asks if

I’d like some company. So

I squeeze out a slight

smile and mutter “no thanks

but it’s nice of you to say

hello.” Then I feel bad

and sad to see her slink

away, because her and I

are really together in

the same circle in

Darwin’s Inferno.

But even so, pity and

empathy don’t override

natural selection, so I

keep writing what no one

wants to read while the

Brat doll keeps laughing and

flashing those long black

lashes of hers at the lonely

old cracka’ she’s still working

on.