the whining wind outside,
caught like yarn
in the wet trees.
then, his roar,
quickly muted
even as his ruddy eyes
flick from her to her.
alcohol rasps
down his throat.
the beat to an unnamed song
turns his hand to
a telegraph,
tapping cryptically on the bar -
his other hand,
buttressing his sinking chin.
in the dim mirror of the bathroom,
he sees his face,
half-eclipsed.
outside: the asphalt,
pretending to be ice.
turning red
with the stoplight's glare
as though something
deep beneath
is shuddering to life
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