THE YOUNG FAT BLEACHED BLOND

is giving away
samples. Every few seconds
she shouts:
PUMPKIN CHIVE,
PUMPKIN CHIVE
to the hipsters
and squares
who walked by
her cheap
make-shift
stand.
What the fuck
Pumpkin Chive is
I don't know.
The liquid
inside the bubble
is cloudy,
brownish;
an ice tea
of some sort.
One thing I do know:
it costs
plenty.

Quickly, her bubble
had deflated
and she cradled
the sad watery ice
and lugged it back
inside, but not before
checking her phone
for messages. She knew
there were none,
but checked anyway.
She left
the thimble sized cups
on the sidewalk
without a thought,
her face blank
as well.

Another cigarette,
I thought,
as I scribbled this
down. We all have our hells--
welcome
to
mine.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013