In the Eyes

In eyes worn out, with weariness in muscles wound round skinny arms with black hair on them. Like toilet paper on a round roll. Fingers nimble as pliers deftly took a pill from the pack with some strange kind of name. He stands — like a statue. Silently stares through the glass, going numb, at the crowd flowing over the asphalt in dim-colored coats and hats, men's faces, cigarettes stuck to one side. From his pressed forehead a little spot grows. The cats scurry close by. Both rub against his legs, the tailed little beasts, not getting why he's standing like a statue… Shame on him — he won't even look! The rain smears its little kids across the windows. He stands without stirring, as if on a hunt, giving no chance to the creeping vomit. Anger and hopelessness — in one glass. Pain, bared like underwear in a cancan, hops back and forth, its little legs twitching, and every so often gets distracted by cats. Eyes frozen, shining like a doll's, no emotion, not even a faint "wow". The pulse building in the back of his head went out like reason over some bottle. Finally it's gone. The medicine helps against the body's chronic treachery. He still stands there — held captive by the ailment, afraid to give himself away to the damned headache.