Feisty cats, and my itchy nose
Sit on the cracked window sill.
The paint chips, slowly flaking off and
Falling to the hardwood floor.
The small house plant,
Soaking up whatever
Bay Area sun that can
Sneak in between the buildings
And underneath the air defenses
Of the three obnoxious street people.
They sing songs until dawn and
Sip week old warm pissy bottles of cooking sherry,
While they aggressively ask me for $3
Everytime I walk by.
I stare into their eyes
And I laugh because I am only
Carrying hundred dollar bills.
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