I walked passed the closed Carlton chemist
at 11.06 on a sunny Sunday on my morning walk.
There was a pack of methadone junkies waiting at the door for their hit,
standing around in all their toothless decrepitude.
Short and fat, tall and thin, chewing, twitching, vacant, disheveled, still,
sunken lined-faces, missing teeth, track suits, crooked smiles, bare feet,
like milk cows waiting at the dairy doors,
we pretend not to see.
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