The Gala Apple

it was the nights of the dirty south men who migrated north to represent in this freezing paradise found disillusioned by fantasy and hard drugs here, where women are sisters sharing iced vodka free from the bartender with a rim coated in love with sweet sugar the white rasta man, dreadlocks, deep impersonated Jamaican accent drawling smokes out of a Gala apple punctured through the side sticker to the core stem picked smeared with cherry chapstick the eroticized transient panhandling thief snaps his fingers after shaking hands puts holes in walls the size of alarm clocks his threatening stare a sure sign of insanity all he has left to cling to is his indignant assertion that he is superior to all of humankind, everyone except his sister and mother not realizing that I am his sister and mother but I met a man superior to the transient thief among dirty south transplants and rasta men held his shoulders, kissed his chapsticked lips as he held out his hand to say goodnight