O, he would walk the barrel-vaulted catacombs
with slobbering torch and a terrible, howling mouth
like a hole torn in a jersey,
blinded by rheum and tears.
His rages would windmill, gathering momentum
till he was clawing at the dank walls:
The phantom appellation of a sure thing
evaporated in the time it took
for him to turn towards her,
tilt his head,
and vomit down her blouse.