remote cards

Solemn drunk staggers between cars, from lane of stopped traffic into still moving traffic. The light is red, so we are slowing and coming to a stop, and he watches for his gap. Towards the moving cars he does a hand motion, as though he has removed his face, a wiping motion, then crumpled it in his hand, then thrown it aside to the road. This done he crosses somewhere behind me, and gathers himself once more on the pavement, his shirt tails tugged out, his face gone grey, his hair lank. He does his dishevelled best to progress in the dignified fashion of the truly hammered.