stomping away as worn as his reasons
for giving up drink. His shades slid
down his nose like dime-store readers,
so he squinted into the exquisite naiveté
of an ever-yellow belief that all of life
is always fair. Smiling at passersby
while two-finger tipping the hat he wished
he’d worn, shame and shaving and feeling clean
for the first time in months hit him hard as hate –
the kind that sticks and takes root like a graveyard oak.
He fled with his bald head wrapped in spite, his teeth
that lands like heat on drought over sourdough dreams.
Through newsprint and hot mirage, he jerks a soda
as red as rose petals leaping from an ex-wife’s chest.
(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)