THE ALCOHOLIC
I see him on my way to work from time to time
The alcoholic.
Clutching his umbrella, staring out the window
The unmistakable stench of fermented dreams wafting from
his body
His being.
I don’t know his name nor his story
All I know is his scent
It is the smell of decay - of sorrow - of neglect - of emotions suppressed
Gangrene of the heart.
It is the repugnant aftershave of a man on skid row
The scarlet letter of those who just can’t get it together.
As he’s about to leave, our eyes meet
I feel a stirring within me.
A sensation that I cannot articulate with words, only with
synapses.
Of a familiar stranger
The alcoholic.
JAMES RHA
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