against time and the dizzy flows of human traffic
with heart in hand and tears still wet in his eyes
he races toward her
to delirium he had drank himself
under comfort of darkness and the flicker of screen’s silver
the drama of blood and sweat playing before him
as he drank, the torrents came
in the soft cover of black solitude
droplets rolled down rough skin
knowing immediately
it was meant for one woman, he waited eagerly
for the show to end – and he raced
arriving at the bar – hopefully in time –
she would see the wetness in his eyes
the despair in his face
she would see him, truly
the vulnerability in his person, and he would be more
than just another man who fucked her
he arrives at the bar, well before last call
but the woman isn’t there
what is he to do with his sadness?
pour them on the poor bartender
rain them on the happy drinkers around
no
he turns to the fat man at the end of the bar
sad, lonely, pitiful, with an ugly shirt
loud enough to wake the gods
grunting at the barmaid
as though she were his payed whore
demanding another drink
he walks over and floors the fat man
fist after fist, he pelts down on the fat man’s face
he stops
the fat man rises – panting, sweating, bleeding
he swears in anger, “You fuck!” and throws a punch
which lands unchecked
the fat man beats him down
a lump of bloody pulp on the floor
not a punch is blocked
people pull the fat man off
the barmaid screams murder:
“That’s enough! Get him out!”
he sinks into the pavement
wonders if he will ever be allowed back into the bar
if he should see a doctor
he wonders if his eyes are wet with tears
if anyone sees them, if they even care
that he exists at all, that he cries
face bleeding, body aching
mind spinning down to blackness
he needs to know he is real
