He fell into the bottle,
man with greasy ringlets,
overgrown moss in a narrow face;
red Hawaiian shirt stretched over belly,
a can of Bud clasping his grasp
of reality.
Folded pant cuffs,
dirty scuffed
once white sneakers,
he grabbed the bottle in a moment of despair
and never let go.
Here he now moves;
not even a walk
but a floating of sort,
swept along by the crowd.
Copyright © 2012 Chaya Silberstein
2 comments:
You're describing Scotty from The Barn. I used to drink there on Sunday nights because he'd have his friends come in and play music and there were dollar drafts. I saw him at the market last week and he was wearing that same damn shirt.
Nice! So he has a name.
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