Six Drinks Later

As so often happens in places
of extreme duress, I’m arrested
with the singular desire
to find out just what comes next.
The text of future tense
is illegible hash, crashing
against the present tense’s
window with hurricane force.
Two short musical phrases ring
in my ear, first one, then the other,
then the first again.
Their motif is thirst, thirst itself
without the object it posits
as that which can sate it.
This late in the game,
I should be blaming
my permanent victim status
for the loss I’m about to add
to my scrapbook of losses,
the embossed lettering
on the cover cowering,
its pages flowering, but instead
the phrase “Fuck it” is powering
through my exposed teeth,
bleeding. I’ll be needing
that second chance once more.

-r. miller

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