Chinaski

His face is sallow, drawn and jowly

with disappointment,

skin crenulated with acne scars,

nose bulbous, red, and spidered with bright blue veins

from drink.

He leaves his home in the evening hopeful.

He goes to different watering holes in town.

Hope is not dead within him.

It still sits improbably,

a great tropical bird

perched atop his heart.

Love, or even simple companionship is out there

for him,

and the feeling is not wrong.

And the preparation is of utmost importance.

The young people in the bars

smirk at his appearance

at his effort to comb

his greasy hair

to present what little he has

in clean togs, powdered, deodorized,

a show of simple respect to

his as yet, unmet love.

He sits at the bar

carefully and slowly sipping

a single beer,

absorbing as much time

with it as possible,

making amiable conversation

if possible, waiting for her.

She arrives,

in a gaggle of angry women

all venting the hardships

of their partners or ex-partners.

She’s been through a bit of wringer,

a divorce, a bitter custody fight

that ended in a stalemate,

weight gain,

a knee injury,

a flirtation with opiate addiction.

She’s feeling like all men are dogs.

She’s feeling like love is a scam.

But, now there is a man.

He seems like a good one,

maybe a little down on his luck.

There he is, looking at her

Embers glowing from the

dark recesses of his eyes.

She hasn’t seen that

in a long, long time,

like more than a decade.

No one looks at her with longing

and it is high voltage electricity

inside of her.

The events, the passage of time,

doesn’t register.

What registers

is that she is sucking face

with this distinguished looking gent,

and she is loving it. 

She is loving the attention.

And later his dirty little apartment doesn’t bother her

Why?

She knew he would live in squalor.

It is better that way.

Because she is safe

in what she hrings

She is the sunshine in his dark corner.

And she knows it

And there is so much power in that.