beer half past noon listening reading
to sam sax’s on alcohol poem
after the final line in one hand
a bottle to my lips my body a future
compromised
i promised mom i’d outlive her
& it’s going well so far
but these low-hanging clouds
are moving fast and there are drips
of sky becoming foggier
sara says we shouldn’t have drank last night
a monday
but the beers at woodlands are bargain $2 drafts
o genie whisk me to an open field
with flask construct a crumbling house
at the center where i lay drooling the day’s
indiscretions
my mouth a volcano
concrete spat into my palms
the heaviness of me
drops
(originally published in Flypaper Magazine, Winter 2018)