Thursday 22 December 2016

night before

Back at it—drinking free
Across from michael’s father,
Alcoholic breath stinking somehow
Uncold December wind from the imperfect seal
At the pub door. Two of them are gone,
Garage door shut on their outstretched fingers
Rubbed raw by dishes and cheap detergeant,
Canning them as they tried to secret to the outside,
To the green leaves and manicured lawns—
But the speed of $10 per hour is not fast
Enough and the distance to the border lengthens
Like those camera shots of horror, seeming closer,
Even as they move farther away.

In the great dark hours between 11 and 1
When I wish my day alive, the streets
slide along whispersmooth tracks and homes
shut off one by one in a race to close me into
a drink or a lovers arms, or both, or lately
neither in the first sober spiraling out of the circle
since I started working and drinking at 13.
I refuse to be counted down to sleep
Counted out as I take care of myself discreetly
And expediently in the blue shadow light

Of a computer screen.

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