by Leeroy Berlin
my neighbor eyes me warily on the plane
either because i haven’t shaved in a week
and i still have blood-shot eyes from the night before
or because i’m pouring grain alcohol out of one of those
clear plastic toiletry bottles
the tsa lets us carry-on
into my free coke without explanation.
sláinte, i say and smile as
i down what for all he knows is a
cocktail
of coca-cola and shampoo.
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