Grimey, like a shuffle in the downtown sludge, open bardoors breathing the stink of liquor and piss and old men, their pockmarked skin flaking hopeless desire. this old man, thistle man, throws down the brown paper bag filled with smashed sterile bones of glass, and rubs his hands, his empty hands. he croaks, points prideful gnarled knuckles at the line-walkers passing above. snatches the black woolen cap from his lap. he won't move til he's ready, this thistle grown from concrete and asphalt, prickly and dried, weathered in a barrel for life.