the mighty workhorse
(or drunkard).


fool was drunk as shit, or else he was just tired. he was hunched over and his head was down, next to the edge of the table. he had a red lanyard, and he'd fall into his white paper cup. the cup tilted and went up against his head, as though he were putting on a tiny hat in slow motion, horizontally. something fluttered to the floor. a lid or napking or piece of paper. he was so sleepy, or so fucked up. he awoke a little bit, and reached for the floor, but his hand just stopped there.

eventually, he woke up, stumbled around, walked somewhere. maybe back to work, maybe back to his tiny, empty apartment. he probably went back to work. it was lunch time, after all. he didn't have much of a lunch. there was no bag, no paper plate, no used napkin or anything. maybe he had a grape and a small cup of water. his employers worked him like the mighty workhorse they thought he was, and he couldn't even buy himself a proper meal. he just wanted to sleep. a tiny little cot, for the love of god, just a small place to lay his head.

down on broadway, he was a stranger again. he wasn't of the punk kids, the drifters with their dark green canvass jackets and duffel bags. they always had scarves around their necks, and their dogs had scarves, too. they had scarves for their dogs, the freedom to travel, and here they were on the corner of broadway and pike, asking for change. it was all cardboard signs and stories about how they needed just enough bus fare to get to des moines or coeur d'alene. he couldn't help them, so he envied them instead. sure, they were poor, probably poorer than he, but at least they weren't working.

then there were the powersuits and the metrosexual bald men with their designer shoes and designer glasses. looking straight ahead, they zoomed past everyone. gotta make a buck, gotta make a buck, they seemed to be chanting mentally. and there were buses and cars and a helicopter overhead that signified someone nearby had been significantly injured. he thought about it. what would it be like to be airlifted, rescued from the tragic scene below?

strapped to the gurney, it'd be impossible to look down.

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