OTHER PEOPLES PROBLEMS

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