He swears he means well as he drills in me details of 
himself. I fall as he explains how I remind him of 
someone he knew. Feet spread apart and closing in, the 
old man calls me his son. Crawling down the lane as fast 
as my hands can go, he corners me into a shadow spitting 
the dregs of sympathy, cheap wine and cigarettes. Holding 
my neck I assure him that we've never met at the top of 
my lungs. Choke him with his tie and kicking for my life. 
His head meets the asphalt. A bottle rolls from his coat. 
He's humming a tune that he knows, preaching note for 
note to balance his heart.