Monday, January 25, 2010

Years Time

Dial-a-Bottle drunk...a delivery man walks up wooden stairs. Jim Beam in brown bag; coin falls from shaky hand. Who's left behind? Dark apartment, life inside as empty as a bottle. Government man, besotted, sorrowful, drowns in sightless pain, the torpor of an intoxicated dream. Who do you leave behind, Delivery man? Delivery boy. Work your way through college, minimum wage, gratuity from impaired souls. Lonely. Angry. Middle age hurt. Ahh, but in contrast you sail through life. A joke or two to share with callow friends. But a secret deep inside is for you to despair. What of me in many years? Wooden stairs? Darkened apartment? Father drops coin from shaky hand? Dial-a-Bottle drunk calls a name.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

My dial a bootle experience wasn't so bleak. I partied with a whole whack of Optometrists once. They dialed up some Sambuca when the keg got low. Later it was all matches and sparking cinnamom.

Old Ollie