“You look like my son,” he says.
But he does not look at my face
He looks over my head and out the window

It is the look of a man that while drunk
He has kicked his dog in the ribs
Because he can

But now he is sober
And can’t really look at it anymore

I understand that look
And run my own fingers along my side

I wonder
If he still has the rain in is breath
And as if to answer my question
His chin quivers
He fixes his glasses

“How old is your son now?” I ask

“We’re both old men now, ” he says

I give him his change
52 cents
And two plastic bags

“Happy Birth-
“Merry Christmas I mean.”
Merry Christmas I say