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the ghost class
struggle with the cost of gas
and juggle next years utility bills in their sleep
walking wake wide money worries keep but often lose their car keys
they know that futility kills and the dukebox seldom plays the right tune and that the menu never really changes they're normally to be found
in the earlyriser bar of the decompression lounge popping pills drinking before noon at their machines punching time cards punching the air their moral philosophy a simple Freudian how much is all this shit gonna psychically cost me? they already know how much they're down in monetrary terms and are desperately trying to get out of it most days of the week or just listening to the tv getting by getting through it with the sound off the ad's looping endlessly broadcasting commercialised hope sitting for sale work bruised hands splayed downwards on the table faces pressed against the cool glass
looking out on main street
with the dead fish eye of justice damply haunting proceedings
hoping to recognize someone a familiar spectre or a survivable situation for a while instead of drawing figures cold wet finger-tip wide ghostly figures with circle heads and halfhearted sweeping u smiles in the condensation which sweat and vanish at their feet
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