There once was a boy
who wore a hat whene’er he was working
who made drinks one by one.
He’d snatch the ticket, which grumbled up from the machine, and hang it loosely
casual
between two slates of metal.
He’d grind the carrots – separating them juice from pulp from soul and spraying their last stingy hurrahs over upside-down glasses resting on rubber mats.
He’d blend the mangoes.
He’d steam the milk
taking care, when a gallon emptied, to crush the container and rinse it with the steamer,
tip just inside the lip of the bottle
dribbling hot water all through and rinsing of remnant and future stench.
saving future trash collectors from rot bath –
one less un-rinsed gallon of old milk to worry for.
This boy wore his hat to work like told
and for every ten drinks he made
he made one for himself, too.
a bubbly concoction just tinged with a reminder of fruit
to offset the taste of bitter fermentation (that never was fully masked).
With every ten drinks, there’d emerge a guffaw
or a burst of affection
To kiss a waitress on the cheek
To proclaim worldly excellence
To tell a girl she was beautiful or to remark on her efficiency.
So when the hat came off,
he’d look younger and be dressed in colors
and a bemused smile would plaster one half of his face
(for you see, he’d had an uneven grin
laying just below the flare of mismatched nostrils.)
A grin who half of which always seemed to be rather a grimace instead.
But the hat disappeared into his bag
and traded for the helmet to a bicycle, which he’d clutch in his hands
or place next to him on a wooden booth
as his hands busied lifting a clear golden glass to his lips
or a bottle.
With every sip first he’d sure up with his words
and spit them out
then fumble for them, wanting to shove them back where they’d been born from.
He’d speak of pretty girls,
the ones he admired for their looks and sweet demeanors.
He’d pine for interesting boys,
the ones he wished he was himself.
The girls he wanted. The boys he wanted to be.
And he never said an unkind word for anybody.
But the way half his face froze to a grimace
and how he was so eager to sip through his day –
he never accepted when his hand on a woman’s knee was encouraged.
“It won’t be good,” he’d concede, or
“I’d rather drink alone tonight.”
He’ll drink alone, and crawl deep in to the wrinkles made on one side of his mouth,
the incurable downturn of his lips on the right side
he’ll curl up like a frog or a fetus and let the crescent of his forlorn forced dimple caress him like a hammock
feeling held in some sadness
and taking some sick comfort there, sweetly in the dark.
his hands in paint and his hat nowhere to be found.
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