Losing Face Poem by Thomas Edward Puleston Rickarby

Round the houses we go,

first one, then two, then three pints

spread on the bar like a hand of brag.

He downs each drink with a flick of the wrist;

a boxer landing fists on his shadow.

He goes out the door, picks a fight

with the bouncer, measures his steps

before he slips and hits the wall

of an arm in his face. Blood peeling

from his grimace, bloody tears.

He feels the mushrooming pain

of concussion and the long beep,

in one ear, of a hospital machine.

Soon he sleeps fast as a dog in the car,

dead to the sirens, certain to regret

nothing in the morning except

seeing his face in the mirror:

that caricature he can't bare.