112

I came from under the porch
Into the rain and walked over
Toward the figure in the chair
Under the bent spokes of the
Parasol, which was dark, wet.
I could see a halo of grey hair
And the white, taut skin of
A bare scalp and the lapsed
Shape of shoulders, supporting
A head weighted with sleep.
I walked around the lounger.
A pallid, misshapen, paunched
Man of perhaps fifty, eyes
Set back in chalky sockets like
Recesses in a cliff. He stank
Of alcohol even from several
Feet away. His white shirt was
Stained yellow with grass stains
On the arm as if he had fallen
In the night as he stumbled
In from the surrounding trees.

I took from my jacket a
Small kitchen knife and held
It in my hand and I began
To feel his pockets and as
I was doing this his eyes came
Open and he stared at me,
All but motionless, bloodshot.