When I realize Mike won’t be getting back up, I turn toward a casino doorway of angry, frightened faces, searching for recognition as a fellow human being, as a baseball fan, as a betting man. Finally I’ll settle for recognition as a drunken brute, but even this seems to be asking too much. Nobody says anything. This animal turns on its tentative, uncertain feet and staggers away, shape-shifting and looking for places to hide. This animal scurries along with tail tucked firmly between its legs, skittish and growling, shying away from human contact like a coyote with a gnawed-off leg.
Tim Hawkins
www.timhawkinspoetry.com
The Savage Detectives
Roberto Bolaño