Tattoos

He sits
outside
of a store,
drunk,
wearing a wife beater.
He holds
a bag of beer
in
one hand
and a cell phone
in the other.
He tells me
he's
waiting
for a ride.
I notice
his last name
tattooed
across his arm
and a scar
on his
neck.
The phone rings.
"Where the
fuck are you?"
he yells.
We sit there
for a few more minutes,
waiting.
Eventually,
a car pulls up.
He gets into it,
sets down his
beer,
and waves goodbye.
They take off,
into
the darkness,
into the unknown,
into
oblivion.