Dad

He slept the dream of ethanol and when he woke, his battered soul was in a mood too foul to bear as vomit stuck in his gray hair. There in the gutter where he lay in awe of yet another day. By-passers did what they have done for generations. People run from something seemingly askew they all have better things to do. Two blood-shot eyes, deprived of care can, if required, beat the glare of solar early morning bragging as purple bags, resigned to sagging do complement this alley bum there, in the gutter with his rum. She stepped, fresh ginger in her heels, around the Salvos' stern appeals, took two crisp banknotes from her purse when from the sidewalk came a curse. Blue eyes hop-skipped onto the ground to find the voice that made this sound. Much static electricity now filled the air for all to see. His eyes were locked onto her breasts like horny, uninvited guests. To break the atmosphere of shame she held the note out 'what's your name? ' He answered, spitting as he spoke 'My girl, you have observed I'm broke. But all the rum in old Spokane has not destroyed my inner man.' And then, it fell, like dandruff flakes from deep blue eyes and long-lost aches: This unkempt bum, red-eyed and sad now held her hand. 'I am your DAD.'