You awaken and It's there.
Piss and grease and sweat
and disinfectant,
metal on metal on metal;
radios, and bets
made out of boredom.
A slim young thing
swishes by in roach-bitten flip-flops.
Some call him the Countess.
Others call him faggot.
He slings a cup
of week-old shit and piss at you.
Mustard brown and fermented,
it slaps a scratched and clouded square
of plexiglass.
Men who call him faggot
laugh and cheer.
Fermented,
fear is boredom.
You awaken.
And It's there.


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