"White Wash" by Blair Avon Martin

Another late night at the Alston Burger King.
The overhead florescent lights 
uncover all the local girl’s bad make-up 
as well as the desire lingering in the hungry eyes of over worked 
immigrant slugs searching for ways to tickle their brown balls
wrinkled and tight from the cold.
And I can relate.

Little girls with scabby knees 
skip through spilled soda pop wearing badly worn vinyl flats
as their ashy ankles collect a commonwealth of debris 
from wayward blind-surprise days unfolding in disbelief 
probably, 
I guess.                                        
What?

I don’t know, just trying to make some sense out of why 
I’m wrapping my unfulfilled lips around this Double Whopper.
I suppose it’s just something to eat and I don’t think that
my stomach, its’ hunger
their resolve gives shit, 
a damn.                                       
What?

My slow eyes undress a drunken, familiar face 
that bumps into me as I move 
through a glass door full of little fingerprints
belonging to question marks 
and out into the night air that cools the hot coffee
now wetting my bereft, frustrated hand.

Tonight, I’ll crash fully dressed on their reluctant couch,
strategically placed beneath the decaying eves 
to expedite the morning ritual….tomorrow could bring change.
Let us pray for white wash for white wash.