I sat there and rigorously observed,'Watching' has been my thing since I was conceived, Standing at one of two adjacent milk bars at Ringwood Station, My side was where the biggest gang in the area inhabits, And the other the cocktail of addicts occupied, The area heroin epidemic was the altimeter cinematic experience, Everyday was a treasure to both my interest and inhibition, Some of these addicts were my comrades and others were just actors in my screenplay, Addicts are always checking in or checking out, Never at one with complacency, The brisk disjointed walks accompanied by the look of anxiety and desperation, The wisk sound of brand new sports track suits, meant they were fresh out of the joint, A small glimpse of dignity to clothe the demons within, Couples, lovers, friends they all belonged to the club, Their glazed watery eyes shot darting looks as each one walked by, Our momentary connection is one of guilt and embarrassment, Although I'm not sure which of us embraced these feelings the most, Straight to the medicine man, The pawn in the game who hustles his addiction, A struggle with not clearing the price was always a must, Then they walk away to oblivion to inject the pain away, Hoping for 'the big one', I watched businessmen and blue collar workers walk by in disgust, They felt they served more worthy paths, 'If the pain is foreign then it is not really present,' I sit there and wait for change, "Yo bruz, you got 40cents for a phone call?" I pass the money, hoping its a call for help, "Why the fuck did you give cash to a junkie? Fuck him" My youth didn't award me the intelligence to explain, As my eyes, pen and paper held all the answers.