gypsy prostitutes

There is a gypsy camp by my house. It is ramshackle. Plastic tarps and wooden palettes adorn the rickety eclectic structures that hide beneath. Children's clothing dries from twine that stretch over chunks of mud and standing water. Fires burn there at night. Across from the road is an industrial park where the young girls sit on old tar-roofing cans, warming themselves by their own small fires fueled by chunks of plywood and dried brush. They wait for truck drivers. I still cannot find a tire gauge for my bicycle. I've looked everywhere in my stuff and in every aisle of every autoparts store. A bright star greets me in the mornings. The sun also rises over the dusty slopes a klick away in the east. Every morning it shines a multi-hued fire in our home. My eyes hurt to look at the bright white walls.