We were sitting there at the bar watching the street from windows view counting the hours and killing drinks.
We were pissing and moaning about our frustrations.
About publishers and writers alike.
“Man I just don’t get the deal with most these fuckers!”
Richie said as he sipped on a overpriced beer.
“The average person is bad and writers are a different breed of a royal pain in the ass.”
I replied as I was more interested in the view of the street than yet another rambling conversation about writers.
Richie was amongst that group that craved something hollow known as fame he was a friend in title alone.
I saw a hooker working the street she had some impressive legs she seemed as tired as myself.
And soon Richie noticed what I was more fixated on than him.
“Jesus Christ look at that poor woman selling her worn out ass.”
Richie took another sip of his beer.
“Fuck man whores are the worst kind of broken in my opinion.”
I laughed at that last statement I looked at my friend.
We were both poets.
At his feet sat a box of books he could not sell after doing a reading that paid him nothing.
I knew there was no difference between us and those that sold their bodies to the night.
Except we sold our souls and cast judgment like kids in school.
Poets are something far worse than broken it seems.