There are no comets seen (when beggars die)
Behind the lustery chrome-coated front, behind the rows of stools spaced along the counter, and past the short-backed booths set with silverware for four, was the bathroom. It was lit by low watt lights half burnt out, and floored with burnt red tiles crud-coated and uncleaned.
The door said MEN on the sign and the old fellow, all gray, all black, stood facing the graffiti-scratched and dull double mirrors in the back corner of the three cornered hole.
His back to the door the man stood, at the sink, his silver colored walker reflecting the dieing fluttering filaments of the 60 watt. His pants were unzipped and he pissed in the sink.
He held his chin up, his strong black wrinkled jaw held at an angle of pride. Or defiance. I stepped into the empty single stall and shut the door.