The graying man's hands rested, turned upwards towards the sky
Thick and sticky counter top had been left glued to his palms

I never saw his hands with my own eyes
But I heard they were caked stiff from his visits
Deep brown lacquered by a red-bloody sangria finish
Gummy sweet
A sickly treat for the gods

This was quite opposed to the painfully salty taste on his pale-white cheek
And the deep eyes that had sunken over time
Week after week
His hands rested, turned upwards towards the sky