Father and his friend
sit on folding chairs,
their enormous cloaks
of fleecy amber, saturated
with sweat, completely
fill the sun-streaked room.
Their globose hats nearly
join, forming a dome
over the container
of heaving luminous beer.
Two long straws,
like tiny fishes
caught and retained
at each point of their descent,
exit from their locked
lips into the sea of scent.
Sweat in these noon-soaked cloaks,
the frothy propensity of beer,
the grainy air trapped in the house
brim, bubble, boil together,
reach out, spatter, splash, explode
and strike me down inside my head.
I notice at this fainting moment
my father dash up like a comet
and the leopard paws of the vessel
prance against my sticky face.
A cylindrical seal rolls over
the soft clay of the child's brain
and delivers with a brutal glow
this gaudy imprint, making it remain.
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