Day of the Dead

by Alan Catlin

She could have been
anywhere between 26 &
dead of old age, cadging
Gin Rickeys from bar flies,
showing too much tit and
an icy sexual fire that almost
compensated for her washed
out eyes, pale coked out skin
and negative brain waves
that sucked in souls and
placed them in black holes
way beyond all the absolute
zeros of her mind.
"I ain't having no Welfare
baby, that's for sure, not this
babe." She says, scarfing
down pills with each new
ration of double Gin.
"What this babe needs
is a slim hipped dude
to some slow dancing with
and some hard loving after."
And if all else failed,
the next dude in the bar was
going to be the poppa of
her sure-to-be born-premature
child.