El Papi.

Sometimes,
Very goddamn rarely,
I catch you in the glass.
Your head is back,
Talking to the throb of a bottle.
Grit on your cheeks and chin -
The only thing stopping your face
From icing over.

The cigar strings are at your ears,
Playing you a song.
Pursed lips, I could swear I hear a whistle.
Is this how you calm yourself?

And every time it happens,
It becomes clearer.
Nearer and eminent:
One day,
Fists and all,
I'll grow into your shoes.

Fuck.