The glands in his throat are swollen so
that when he turns his head
he feels them pressing into his throat.
A woman sits on the sidewalk
at 6th street just below mission
in a green running jacket and track pants
her face fallen, pale, and round,
with thinning white curly baby hair,
thick brown tinted glasses, two missing
front teeth and a gold chain peaking
from behind her collar.
She's hunched forwards, her whole torso
tilted toward a tiny green plastic bound
edition of the new testament. The words
seem too small, all of her bent towards it
as if her shoulders and her neck and her chest
are all trying to sort out the tiny text.
She moves her lips.
He struggles to keep his eyes open,
feet heavy and thick, "it's like walking through water"
he says, maybe to her. She does not look up.
He wades into the corner market. A bell chimes
the man at the counter does not flinch.
He buys a fifth of HandH (Ancient Age whiskey, which
when pronounced quickly sounds like HandH. His friends
introduced him to this brand, and it took three full
months for him to know the name correctly as Ancient Age,
though he still says HandH when ordering or purchasing
the whiskey. "HandH, 7and7...," he thinks, "These things
are all the same."
He also buys a quart of whole milk.
He will drink the milk now, and he will drink the whiskey later.
The smell of it alone will relax him, will lay all the hairs
of his body flat, his scalp will tighten with anticipation,
ears pushed back and ready.
(He exits into a cool dim day, the fog rolling in eastward along
Howard street. He crosses away from the woman
and the store, small droplets of rain peppering
his shaved head. His sneakers creak and groan.
He squints behind large black glasses, teeth aching
"Someday," he thinks, "I will have no home"
opening the heavy newly installed grey door
to his apartment, where his friend is cooking
greens in a bullion broth and brewing very nice
nutty coffee, and singing loudly a song by morrisey.
"Someday," he thinks, "I may be that woman"
he enters the kitchen hungry and thirsty
with barely a voice left in his throat, the milk
almost slipping from his hand, the whiskey
heavy in his jacket pocket.)
that when he turns his head
he feels them pressing into his throat.
A woman sits on the sidewalk
at 6th street just below mission
in a green running jacket and track pants
her face fallen, pale, and round,
with thinning white curly baby hair,
thick brown tinted glasses, two missing
front teeth and a gold chain peaking
from behind her collar.
She's hunched forwards, her whole torso
tilted toward a tiny green plastic bound
edition of the new testament. The words
seem too small, all of her bent towards it
as if her shoulders and her neck and her chest
are all trying to sort out the tiny text.
She moves her lips.
He struggles to keep his eyes open,
feet heavy and thick, "it's like walking through water"
he says, maybe to her. She does not look up.
He wades into the corner market. A bell chimes
the man at the counter does not flinch.
He buys a fifth of HandH (Ancient Age whiskey, which
when pronounced quickly sounds like HandH. His friends
introduced him to this brand, and it took three full
months for him to know the name correctly as Ancient Age,
though he still says HandH when ordering or purchasing
the whiskey. "HandH, 7and7...," he thinks, "These things
are all the same."
He also buys a quart of whole milk.
He will drink the milk now, and he will drink the whiskey later.
The smell of it alone will relax him, will lay all the hairs
of his body flat, his scalp will tighten with anticipation,
ears pushed back and ready.
(He exits into a cool dim day, the fog rolling in eastward along
Howard street. He crosses away from the woman
and the store, small droplets of rain peppering
his shaved head. His sneakers creak and groan.
He squints behind large black glasses, teeth aching
"Someday," he thinks, "I will have no home"
opening the heavy newly installed grey door
to his apartment, where his friend is cooking
greens in a bullion broth and brewing very nice
nutty coffee, and singing loudly a song by morrisey.
"Someday," he thinks, "I may be that woman"
he enters the kitchen hungry and thirsty
with barely a voice left in his throat, the milk
almost slipping from his hand, the whiskey
heavy in his jacket pocket.)
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