the cold glass on my wet bottom lip
my top lip enveloping – and then I tip
the scent stings my nostrils and
my teeth welcome it
head goes back
a slow swallow
and the roof
of my mouth
I write a poem; type out my thoughts
one-handed, a glass of bourbon in the
other. Tap out the title at the top and
declare the date and time of writing at
the bottom. An old ritual. Open a new
document. Write another. Add my time-
stamp. I write a blog post. Later I decide
I’m drunk and it isn’t very good, so I edit
it, still drunk. It’s probably better. I start
on the Scotch. Write another poem.
Restart the soul-spilling.
The timestamps get later and later.
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