Different People

I.

Why am I in the car?  The valium started to kick in.  He looked down to his right and saw his son
in the passenger seat.  
Why are we stopped?  His eyelids fluttered and he could feel the droplets
seep into the back of his Hawaiian shirt.  Rubbing his palm across his face and over his balding
head, he felt like a hipster only clean though.
 Limbaugh has the same prescription as the wife, he
thought
.  She won't notice the what... four, maybe five pills.  "Daddy, is the doggy okay?"  His
son's words nipped at his ankles and yanked him back into the leather interior.  He sniffed deeply
and shook his head.  The seats always smelled of dried cat piss whenever he took it to that
dammed car wash on Seventh.  "Daddy, the doggy?"  He glanced back at his son and up at his
rearview mirror.  He saw it.  It looked like a black blanket jumbled up on the pavement; left
behind to dry in the sun.

II.

She squinted
  and the claws around her eyes
wrapped tighter.

The wind blew,
          sporadic,
like a smoker's cough;
                  pumping phlegm
                  balls of leaves.
Her pores,
beneath the bathing suit top,
stiffened into goose bumps to the howling        touch.

He looked at her wrinkled skin
and the scraggly dreads,
  and tried to remember
  why he had the
  fifty dollar bill in his hand.

Damn hippies.
Lettin' their dogs run everywhere–
they want equal right for every
damned thing.

He glanced down
  at the woman's daughter.
She cradled the limp, black lump
  "Junior?  Junior?"
in sporadic shakes;
expecting a response,
But...

"I'm sure there's a vet around here."

He sandwiched the paper
between
their palms.
  
  Walked back.
  
"Is the doggy okay daddy?"
His son asked,
"What happened?"

III.

"We're different people."
The car started, kicked back dust;
Northbound with its rims.