Red wine runs the gutter.
Life fades into hiding.
A mist of moonshine envelops the town.
A drunk with a bottle fastened to his hand,
Wobbles aimlessly down the cobblestone path.
Wheezing incessantly, he negotiates each step.
The moon weaves through the leafless trees.
Silence drowns the noises of night.
Home is a dream.
He collapses face first in the street.
Asphalt rips the weathered flesh.
The bottle is empty.
Life fades into hiding.
Silence chokes the beating heart.
Who will miss John Doe?
Thal Dixon
1994
