The Alcoholic


I look at him                 He looks at me

As usual, he is pouring                 I say, Are you okay, Scott?

The pink wine goes into the purple coffee mug

He pours, he pours

A cornea of pink wine bulges over the mug’s lip

and onto and onto and onto the countertop


Pink wine is now waterfalling from counter to floor

Still he pours the falling sheet of wine

Still I watch,

reality an unresolved chord

When he sees what he has done he runs

into the taut vacuum of Arizona night

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