Are you drunk?

Writing from the mattress

fog bank head

sinuses drained to gums

pulse heavy in ear

filling an old notebook

Saturday night on Central

a waxed-brain drive to the drug store for medicine

sweating in line

the guy behind the counter

looked slightly

touched with

Downs syndrome or

fetal alcohol syndrome

or a premature birth

but whatever it was

he also had an angry look on

his face, a chip on his shoulder,

something to prove

-a little chubby cowboy

in his heart

wanted payback

for something

on some level-

He looked up at me

and asked me if

I was drunk

and if I drove there

a few people in line

looked me up and down

I ignored him while he put

the Tylenol in the bag but

he handed me the bag

and told me he was

serious about

it

was I drunk

I stared down at him:

Why? You want to fuck me?

an old man in line started laughing

but I kept my eye across the counter at his half-frightened stare

and started to feel bad

anyone with a normal brain

would be

able to tell by my color and sweat that I was sick

I waited for the war to rage

but he just stood there with

his mouth half open

wide moon eyes

and a mole sprouting hair

just under his eye socket

I looked dead at it

and something changed

inside me, something in the

heart

a flicker

or a trick of light

a feeling that

his face

was my whole past

staring at me

I smiled at him:

I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just sick, and I need to sleep. Make it a good night.

Back here in bed I can't get that mole out of my mind

and I worry that he's even more aware of it now

and I worry that

I hurt his feelings

and I know it's going

to keep me awake all night

even though it brought

an old man some joy

and showed me

the past is

more breakable

than I thought

it was.