He enters on eggshells
Breaking into a bank
Tailed closely by a cheap brand of port
Spots my table
Shambles over to speak
Expecting to be struck
Peering out of his dark unquiet mirror

I sit next to woman in a wheelchair
She leans across
“He’s a drunk”
Her son chimes in
An introduction
Handshake
Spirit out of its grip
A pulp
His docile shattered face
Neither open nor unfriendly
“When will she leave?” he asks
“In an hour” she says
He straightens, hangs in the air
Buoyed by discomfort
Disappears through gaps between other patrons
Tissue blown out into street

His double stays behind
I SQUEEZE my eyes
The image PERSISTS
We approach a crossroads in country
Clouds behind two figures in a field
Half illuminated by the setting sun
Distant lights run together
He points these things out to me
As though seeing them for the first time
Flushed and happy
I begin to feel unsteady
Have to turn away
Steps   FALTERING
Clothes
Body
Already
In filthy and squalid condition