The Journal

By a busy city street
three men in a lane,
between the Middle East store
and Vicar St,
bent in business,
oblivious to the hub-bub, 
rush hour people, 
going home,
intent on the share,
the deal of their lives,
this minute. 
Few words, 
hungry eyes,
gaunt and haunted,
slaves of the powder
that owns them
while they buy it,
tossing them
like crumpled waste,
human garbage
for disposal.
In a blink
it’s done
one turns away,
the smiling dealer,
the others quarrel now
like two curs
in a bitter battle
for a scabby bone
dressed up
like juicy steak.