Lines crease around his worn eyes,
Like how paper with coffee stains ripples,
Years were carved into his rough skin,
Aging him immensely, aging him truly.
His hands were those of a worker,
Were those of long days and longer nights,
Like sandpaper and scotch,
How calloused hands can still clutch a bottle.
He cringes,, eyes crinkle shut, adding wrinkles
To his delicately woven burlap skin.
His lips are dry, bleeding slightly,
Enough so he can taste
The lukewarm hemoglobin of it,
But not enough to concern the bartender,
Drunk himself on the ideas of his patrons,
And their countless trips from
Work to wife to whiskey, again.