By Mercedes Lawry
He came out of the gray huddle,
an avalanche of a man,
broken and vast, without forgiveness.
He knew spit and strike,
choke and an eternal bad morning,
waste ticking in his bones.
He would wreck and dismiss,
needing no delusion, just
a scatter of coin which meant
Bread and bed and swerving cloud
of drink and so on again
until he fell, final and unremarked.
Copyright 2014 Lawry