sprawled on the grit floor of downtown crossing station, the pungent odor of flavorless vodka snatches me from my lonesome abyss. two ragged men stumble to & from the scarred yellow edge of the dusty platform, teasing an approaching subway train with a liquored sacrifice, butt of the clear plastic bottle pointed straight-up toward the ceiling, stuffing their insatiated tongues into a slow hole, begging for another drop to wet their parched pink throats. i tighten my sprawl to a squat, mesmerized by the oncoming showcase of every man’s fragile mortality.