Hone Tuwhare - Drunk

When they hustled him out at closing time, he had 40 cents clutched in his hands for another drink. Rain stabbed the streets with long slivers of light. He picked his way, gingerly trading the golden, nonexistent stairs. To the fried fish shop. Whirling pinpoints of colored lights confused him, and when people appeared to converge on him, he swerved to avoid them, and collided with a post. He sensed a sea of receding faces, picked himself up and promptly emptied his guts on the footpath, fervently calling for his bleeding mate. Christ. Who is nowhere to be seen? Later, wearing a stiff mask of indifference. He pistons himself on the bus. At work the next morning, he moved with effort. Of a self built tool. Unaware of the trapped mortal. Crouching there.