The Good Life

I watched the car slide by

silken black, tinted windows and chrome

like silver gleaming against night paint.

I watched the driver in cap and white jacket

open the door for the woman in red

and the man in his black-and-white evening attire.

These two, these two were living

The Good Life, having it all,

weren’t they?

 

While on my radio the heroin addict,

voice husky and dark, I could almost see her

rough-veined skin and draggled hair,

her trembling hands stained, her arms

covered to the wrist, a camouflage hiding

the needle’s trail, and her words,

velvet-rich crooning her love of the high,

the danger, and how she tests each buy

but even then she nods to Death waiting

at the point of every needle.

The Good Life, she says,

I’m livin’ The Good Life.

Aren’t I?

 

The girl at the register with her flashy diamond

and pierced nose told me how she met her love,

the life they’ll have in their first apartment,

just a couch, a bed, no table or chair,

but love was all they needed anyway,

all they needed for The Good Life,

isn’t this the Good Life?

 

The treasure sought by all:

the people in their evening wear,

the driver of the limousine,

the doctor at the treatment center,

the clerk at the convenience store,

the janitor,

the addict,

me.

All seeking the good life,

whatever that may mean.

 

 

 

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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