I stop in my tracks,
Listening

A hollow clinking in the darkness
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of dehumanizing hate

And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark

A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death

A clink
And another clink

                                    There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
                                    At the back of the throat of Hell itself
                                    He has his head down
                                    But through the thick black smudge of night
                                    I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth

He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort

                                    He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
                                    Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void that is my soul
                                    He smiles a knowing smile, and thrusts the bottle against his teeth one last time.


              It does much more than clink.