A drunk man in the plaza, a bottle of wine in each hand, circles the fountain, shouting something, a revelation, a curse, perhaps a threat. Old men playing cards at the south end stop mid-shuffle to stare. The man drops the bottles, empty now, and stumbles into the street. Another man comes out of the café and tackles him, punches him in the face. A waitress pulls the attacker away. Two teenage boys shepherd the battered man, whose left eye is swelling, across the street to calm him. A crowd argues about who’s at fault. An ambulance arrives. A young woman, twiddling the headphones around her neck, explains something to an EMT who listens while keeping a walkie-talkie to his ear. An old woman asks the other EMT to treat a cut on her hand. Where did she come from is the question whispered by the onlookers. I don’t know, but I want to. I want to know who loves whom, what the future holds, where to hide.
autumn shadows topping up a glass of wine
