The Drunks

Winos crowd the city bars,
usually the cheaper places.
Their mouths unclench, storm drains
ready to glug and gag
a deluge into their faces.
They carry leaking minds in cups
balanced on sagged shoulders.
At the slightest slosh
ache drips from the brim
and trails their blinking dishes
leaving them black as oil.

Later they'll have to piss,
shuffle past the bathroom mirror,
peering at themselves, hands
lightly moving over and over
the most eroded places
where their hides are slack,
blood vessels blooming like roses,
where the bottle once bit
a hair line crack
and sent them with a stroke
into a pile of bleeding noses.