I seen him again today
sitting on the cold
metal bench with
his worn cane resting
against his aching knee.

He had his blue prison issue
watch cap pulled on tight
covering his
bald head and most
of his eyes.

He had thick white hairs
poking out of his long ago
broken nose.

Fat blue green veins
and liver spots ran
along his swollen
and scarred
calloused hands.

He had a  faded tattoo
between his
thumb and index finger of
a distorted 9 legged spider
with the word VENOM.

His conversation is at best
minimal, he's here to pay his
due. Just as the Doctors and
Nurses aren't here to comfort you.
They're here to keep you alive
even if you don't want to be.

They'll spend thousands of dollars
to keep you breathing,
they want what's owed.

I take a seat across from
him in the cold uncomfortable
holding tank they call a
waiting room.

He gives me a nod,
I return his gesture.

His left hand shakes,
a large hand at one
time a dangerous one.

His bottom lip sticks out,
his right eye droops and
the tattooed teardrops
droop along with it.

I look without staring.
I've heard he killed men
with his bare hands when he was
young, when he was strong.

A sick of it all nurse
approaches the cage and
calls his name.

He slowly uses his cane
to stand as his ancient knee caps
pop then says,
" They want their pound of flesh,
I'm a stubborn *******".

He looks at me and winks
then smiles a toothless
warriors smile.

I smile because I know he
means it .

He limps past.
He pays his debts.












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