After the dogs ran in Miami,

photo by hungrybison

they threw them a live rabbit,

which was soon torn to shreds.

Beyond the fences,

as the crowd dispersed,

ghosts lingered in the eyes of

the gamblers,

the lost,

the defeated,

the greasy haired motherfuckers,

with pissed stained pants.

They stared blankly at the dirty floors,

floors covered in spit and discarded hopes.

They shuffle, slack jawed into the darkness.

I bought a ticket. I bought a ticket for the bus to Oklahoma.

I need to get out of here.


That’s Indian country isn’t it?

I need to get there before it’s all gone,

all gone, forever.

Just like it has been gone, for some time, in Florida.


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Filed under American West, creative writing, fiction, micro stories, original photography, original writing

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