Commute

Commute.

The w****s on pacific ave

stoop to look in my window:

me at the stoplight,

me driving by,

me getting into my car...

it sickens me.

There is no grand sense

of moral outrage.

there is only

the picture of their sex

sold to every desperate soul,

for money

for drugs,

for shelter,

for food....

it disgusts me,

their clear lack

of human grace,

and in truth

I cannot picture

the absolute

death of self

that must occur

when life becomes

glances into passing cars

looking for the next fix.

Reviews

[Trigorin]

Not bad. A little dark, to be sure, and the narrator comes off as perhaps a little too high-and-mighty, but you've definitely gotten your message across very well. Well done.

[pasdepoisson]

For some reason, when I read this I kept imagining the word "commute" eventually being rhymed to "sale pute". The French seem to have a very robust vocabulary relating to prostitution.

Anyway, I admire your work here. It's interesting that the context of the narration is transitory: you drive past and leave behind their putrid environs while they are left on the margin looking in. The "absolute death of self" must be devastating.