He stared at the lines on his hands for a moment,
his fingers in particular;
the candlelight had fallen just right,
making it clear that the wrong side of thirty
was approaching at the speed of light.
He pulled up his socks,
slipped on his DCM shoes.

Tying the left one with care, he shook his head;
the laces were worn,
and the mere thought of being spotted
walking with a limp was of such … dire concern
that it forced a rather vinegary  
fish-and-chips
up, into his throat.

Adam’s Apple bulged when he stroked the Bible;
on the bedside table
he’d taken a swig of bourbon from the bottle,
swallowed the sweet liquor like a child would a fable,
burped fire-fish stench,
picked up
the gloves and scalpel.

Dance.
Church.
******.