The sun doesn’t startle away
the heft of last night’s image.
There was the street light and the twitching
eyelid, three teeth coated in yellow.
A bellowing that smothered
and the feeling that the old man did not know
of himself.

The contortion of skin: his face,
gapped. A voice lashes at the air.
There are no words. Arms stretch.
There are the hands. A mistake.
He shambles and swipes, finally
he pushes a fist into you, creating
the fall. Now his nails claw
at your chest. Your hand thrusts
up into his gray face, then you push
him off and stand. You throw
the old man down and pummel
his chest with your boots, marking
the ground with flesh, and then
you are gone.

And even though you left him strapped
to the street light’s glow, memory
tightens as you walk down
the harbor, letting its breeze
know your neck.