A bar on a street with a name that changes according to who you ask. Quiet as an embarrassed child. The steel moon smelted: a molten drop. He lost a game of chess to Der Alte Mann who bought him a beer anyways. Forever consoling. Since neither knew the other's language, they sat & drank. Across the bar a girl with purple hair & a dog collar slapped a man. Pool balls breaking. He started carving small letters into the leg of the table with his pocket knife. Drizzle outside. Der Alte Mann slumped in the booth with palm on belly, rising & falling. Hairs in his heaving gray beard stained yellow. fear spits the soul out. He walked home & realized he had no money. All that was left in his wallet was a three of hearts. Peasant card. Worth its name when the hand is strong. But starved & cowling in isolation. Had enough food to last until Friday. Ride the trains when he needed to by sliding in, watchful of men with grim faces, cheeks always the same beet red, who would try to weasel a ticket out of him by claiming he's a criminal. How do you talk yourself out of it, bumbler of words? Half-drunk, his scratched glasses hazed in the dust & sweat. Enough excuses & a look of earnest dread & you can slip through anyone's fingers.
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