Rotten Fruits

Piss in a bottle. Booze in a pisser. Bodies in a gutter. The stench was a tangible pressure against his body, repelling him as he unlocked the gate, the iron green cage around the front door of his apartment. Night had arrived and had brought her companions, the shredded kneed, chalk calloused toed, snotty nosed, ratty, fuzzbunny haired rejects. The moldy crumbs from the loaf of humanity. He dodged them like a halfback, kept his eyes fixed like molding orbs of glass. Breathing soft and swiftly, the odor can't penetrate to the olfactoral nodes. Some swear in gutter tongue, some with twisted deformed faces glare at him. Some slur and spit (drunk or lame?) from toothless mouths as they ask for change, cigarettes, but his ears are filled wells. He hears nothing. For his sanity, he hears nothing.

Faces smashed, chipped, sunken, bulging, glaring, bruised, squeezed. He thinks of rotten fruit and wonders whether the fruit was thrown out because it was rotten or whether it is rotten because it was thrown out.