A Thanksgiving Walk

After thirty minutes, the family was done with one another. The gray sheep of the blacks decided not to show because the charcoal sheep was plaguing accusations of theft, deception, and other scoundrel-like qualities towards the gray one. I myself sat back and enjoyed the meal, and after two chews of turkey, I recall why I loathe the moody, dim-witted bird.

I left after dessert; vanilly ice cream, because I don't trust the words "potato" and "pie" in the same sentence nor the same dish. As I walked home, I saw the prostitutes beginning to occupy their typical territories. I wondered what they were thankful for. I'm sure one was thankful for her coat, which she draped over her left arm, but the chill was diming as the cold drew nearer, which the meant the bitch slaps, beatings, and knife-cuts would sting much worse the longer they were forced to work. The blemishes and blood would be darker as their blood's pigmentation reacted to the temperature-dipping weather.

Be thankful to breathe another breath, I wished upon them. Then, I looked for a truck to throw myself in front of, with no such luck. The streets were empty save for the lost souls wandering about on this very block.

My home was warm, my clothes were dry, and my bottles were empty, and I knew the name of every death on the street where those prostitues huddled together for warmth; for survival.