23

He sits at the bar in the African Lounge
Drinking a glass of milk
And wiping the beads of milk
From his lips as they
Stray with a torn corner
Of starched, white bread.
The glass is violently clean
on the stressed black wood of
the counter which has puckered
over decades from water damage
and too many cares.
His hat has a green feather
making him seem a pimp.
The bread is filthy with sop
and saliva and residue of curd
where it lies dismembered at
the black precipice of the bar,
but his mouth is clean.

Turbulent air passes the door,
telling of storm.