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spilled into the soiled
carpeting. Grady doesn’t
think twice, rooting
around like a hog in
the mud. Fine. Let him
have it. I wouldn’t smoke
that dirty stuff now.
We bump heavily against
the bedroom door. Instantly,
Hunter is crying. Bellowing.
It’s enough to end the battle.
Trey Rolls Off Me
Away from me, onto his feet.
Take care of your baby.
He vanishes into the night.
Close behind is Grade E,
with a sizeable buy and
a pilfered rock. I glance
around the cluttered room.
An ash tray overflows on
the coffee table. A glass
pipe lies on the floor, midst
papers, knocked off a chair.
A raft of papers, floating
on a swamp of nasty carpet,
a place no baby should crawl.
The sink cannot possibly
hold another crusty dish.
Clothing, dirty and clean,
decorates the furniture.
