An Old Soak

An Old Soak

His criss-cut frown
an ink seagull
v-ing through those
four feet between us.
Flat faced
with a square jaw,
he stared.
I stared.
No chickening
no shaping
eye to eye solidity.
Black blink-less irises filled
each sharp angle crevice,
persistent, throbbing.
Awaiting a back down
the water cooled.
His bulbous nose
static through steam.
A motionless
charade of glaze
on that fractured
bath tile of a face.

Jerry Pike