The meeting (22)

Your hands lay open on the wooden table, your eyes clouded; a film of understanding. An urge to stab a knife between each finger at rapid speed is quickly suppressed by the third or forth drink, which goes down with greater ease than the conversation, that seems to linger like fog, hang like smoked meat. And as the dust settles through the early sun beams, my desert mouth tries to hold court alone, with bovine Statements best left for stronger states. This hair of the dog now shaved and platted left to be worn by others, down that rickety path to my ever crumbling home.