Main Street Man
Stumbling through bus doors, he stomps mud-slated boots, grins me a brown-toothed “hey.” His ruffled voice drifts to me, as though we’re been siblings, or decade-long friends, and tonight’s moonless chat on the bus just another usual chat. He offers me a swig of his pink juice and when I refuse, he downs one until his face turns to a flamingo pink, and blood engulfs his cheeks. In the stuffy air softened by vodka, I …