Dirty Dishes In The Bathroom Sink

Her fall has been bottomless
Having lost everything
Within a year and a half.

She now lives in a room
At the Travel Lodge
On the side of a highway.

Social Services pays for it.

She’s in her early to mid fourties.

Her neighbors are fellow addicts, alcoholics and South Americans.
People either going down or trying to find a way up.

They live in rooms similar to hers
Dusty curtains drawn over the single window
Facing the parking lot
Wood paneling
Suffocating any life within the room.

She proudly tells
How she caught 95 flies
On a single strip
Of fly tape
In one day
Only.

The place is run by Indians
That speak little
Fractured English.

They prefer to look at each other
And discuss in Hindi
How to take your money.

They live in the apartment
Adjacent to their small office
Which is a cinder block square
With a metal door and a safety lock.

There are security cameras
Both inside and outside of the office.

They must have bought the place
Everything inclusive
Because the worn office furniture
Was there from day one.
There is a vending machine in there
Where there is not one thing that costs less than a dollar.

The Indians illegally sell
Three different brands of cigarettes
For eight bucks a pack.

They see opportunity
In sucking the blood out of the fallen
And desperate.

There are not many cars in the parking lot
As most of the occupants
Can’t drive
Legal reasons or otherwise
And they can be seen walking
Up and down
The sides of the highway
Or riding bikes.

She sits inside
Watching
A shitty color television
Her clothes piled on the cheap furniture
Around her.

There is a hot plate
That is plugged into the wall
And she heats basic things up on it.

She makes coffee endlessly
In her electric coffee maker.

That is her kitchen.

And when she’s finished
She washes her dirty dishes
In the pink bathroom sink.