Rum makes him a roadside dancer – his legs waver – waves of clumsy expressions on his countenance – his arm rises and falls in the air – an anarchic dance of intoxication. Brain loses control – tongue squelches in the obscenity. Though some issues die themselves; some are to be fought with – but he flees, and hides in a dark bottle. Vapor from his glass casts dark clouds over his lean wife. His daughter loathes the wet peanut pack he brings. He doesn’t see*Gandhi’s smile on the currency he pays at the counter. As his evening steeps in stink, the two moist eyes looks for the dawn. First printed in The Literary Hatchet.