Route 23 To Golgotha by J. Ian Bush
You have your fruit digging in the trash cans, picking tin, glass bottles, new/old clothes, making homes out of sidewalks in the middle of red giant September. We learn early: start day drinking by noon, don’t stop until sun down, then night drink until dawn. Bellies at 8 AM begging for tobacco, vomiting all this dysfunction, but we’re ready to rip off shirts, square up, prove who’s the bigger man. Here, every morning we wake to an obituary for the latest pile of bodies NARCAN didn’t bless. What else do you expect from a garden of weeds? We’re the only thing that’ll grow
at rock bottom.