on the sit near the window pane every night in the bus
the glass full of beads sweated of impotence
and the smell of metal bars on hands
the smell of hundreds or thousands of people that leave or
get back close to him every night

somehow manages to remain silent in his thoughts
his work fellows are boisterous they take their dirty fezzes
off the head and laugh shamelessly without getting tired
and sometimes he gets mocked or nudged
through the bloated feather jacket

he shows plausible the teeth a few times
feels embarrassed against the golden ager in the back even
if his eyes glitter of rum