The lost and the lottery

Two cups of tea and too many Marlie reds. Breakfast of two slices of cheese bread, melted. Try not to think of home. Avert eyes from western white devils in faux-local clothes and forget for now the debt and funemployment that brought the lot of us here.

Think about beds and floors and couches to sleep on in the crutch of Pearson International. Trust the baht bill and tip god damn it, the last North American courtesy left in blood flung far off on a twelve hour rock ride.

Off from that placed lived in better and worse times, all blood in ass and mind. Bleeding toonie-loonie love in Tim Horton coffee cups, rolling up rims to lotteries better left to long lost stonings, economic death, shoebox apartments, and heartfelt faggot love.