He is someone's son, while his wife is loathing him with her every bone; she becomes bonier everyday inside his lies. During the day he builds houses. Provoking architecture under a roof with the marble countertops, the spanish inlayed tiles. He does it well. In his cap, he sways heavy at the bar - tequila laughs at raw divorce, acrid rum does its numb. One more glass to finish off his dad...just one more bartendar...At three o'clock a drunk closes his eyes; ignoring his spilled milk for his bloody bullies await beyond the windows. Look at the child with golden locks He is a father. He dissappoints his wife. He's someone's child. Watch him sob, watch him mend; he is someone's human.