three girls
high-heal stumble
onto the street
casting
blue & red
strobing shadows

I'm sure your eyes
caught their
*******
facade
from behind those cop car windows
.     .     .     .
where you're going
its cold
and
smells like
sterile nothing
and you'll just sit there
with your arms
tucked in your shirt
     make up tip toeing
     down your cheeks

you'll be getting processed
judged
and prodded
by the long sticky fingers
of the law
and we'll be at home
drunk
sleeping