Junkie's Quest

He was updating his junkie's log. With static treaties to solvent judges. Bland excuses compared with the decadent flatteries of abuse. He had his man-dress on. The drape of the drug. Over his life. A carnival of starving lions. Without any teeth. In tight folds. The reasons lumber from his lips. A petty anesthesia.

To hold the clock. Or at least distract it. From knowing how close it is. To catching up with him.

The freedom. Addiction provides. Hopelessness a refuge. He wasn't sure how old I was. Or what color were my eyes. But he was certain I was simple enough to seduce.

The fog of skin that filled that morning wanted to say I was wrong. I was. But it took me too long to discover that.

There was nothing to ask. Except why. He was alone. As I was. The junkie in his overalls. Convinced. The world was his. The last of a firework posing the color. The child drawing pictures on her pillow. As if nothing was broken.

The junkie on his porch. Me in his window.