by Todd Mercer
Some blame the whiskey, as if liquor
could drink itself. Whiskey, if you ask it, blames society
after Happy Hour is over. Hundred proof enough
times sixty minutes, and that product raised to the power of
who asked you to count to count drinks for me?
The strapping specimen tightrope-toes
the sidewalk, supreme concentration evidently
thus far preventing the face-fall, cuts and bruises,
the end of a routine circus routine
that no one bought a ticket to see. Whiskey
finally finds a vehicle for self-delivery. Not
his own car, but one with keys in the ignition, conduit
to the wreck he’s spoiling for, short cut
to the crime beat write-up, courthouse
melodramatics, the infinite duration
of Unhappy Hour, hash-marks
scratched on cellblock concrete. Whiskey blames
his folks back home, his background,
cites various and sundry disadvantages.
Whiskey passes days until next whiskey.