used to be
if a troubled meatbag
conered me
with
real and ordinary problems
i’d
feel
doors slam and walls harden
and
a cold freeze spread deep inside
if i knew ONE thing was wrong
then EVERYTHING was wrong
and
my small helplessness was frightening
i’d avoid this
buried in a beautiful endless stream of golden scotch
with ice or not
with coke or ginger ale or not
mainly not
from
the
bottle
or from nice glasses i'd hold up to dim lamps toasting ME
alone
in
a silence i’d think was safety
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