Outside there is noise, and cameras and crowds.
Taxis pulling away, police land-rovers and cordon tape.
Inside, quiet and dark. With men in white overalls,
Stools lying on their sides, glass broken on the bar.
He lies on his side, face turned in to the toilet door.
Legs curled a little like a child, he does look small.
There are no marks visible, no disturbance. Just him.
Nor is there life in his hollowing face and unseeing eyes.
He is still, the skin pallid looking older than the day before.
No essence or spirit or vitality; that has drained out, in
a thick dark pool under and around him. He is not there.