She stood in a moonlit silhouette, perched on the corner of
DAYS GONE AVE and REGRET CIRCLE.
Was she late?
Vodka tainted breath and voluptuous lips, peering amidst stifled traffic, tragic, a boy has fallen on the sidewalk.
Tragic, the boy is beaten and starved when he returns home.
Tragic, the boy will drink through his teens.
Tragic, the boy will hang with the WRONG crowd.
Tragic.
Tragic, the boy sniffs OxyContin on the bare bottom of Charlene Mizerkrompkin, her twat smells like elderberry wine and licorice liquor, toasted almonds, a rusted wristwatch.
Tragic.
She watched the boy pull himself from bricks of cement, eyes tearful, and looking for reassurance.
The mother seizes the boy’s scabbed hands, and leads him onward home.
She stood in a moonlit silhouette, perched on the corner of
DAYS GONE AVE and REGRET CIRCLE.
Was she late?
THE BADBOOB 