by

Rum makes him a roadside dancer –
his legs waver –
waves of clumsy expressions on his
countenance –
his arm rises and falls in the air – an
anarchic dance
of intoxication. Brain loses control –
tongue squelches
in the obscenity. Though some issues
die themselves; some
are to be fought with – but he flees,
and hides in a
dark bottle. Vapor from his glass casts
dark clouds over
his lean wife. His daughter loathes the
wet peanut pack
he brings. He doesn’t see*Gandhi’s smile
on the currency
he pays at the counter. As his evening
steeps in stink,
the two moist eyes looks for the dawn.

First printed in The Literary Hatchet.

Forums: