twenty four more cans on Tuesdays.
Sunday dad swore I "won't see a case of beer"
Monday evening when he slams the truck door.
A tape recorded memo might've saved his larynx.
If waiting on molasses to pour is a virtue
then the brown syrup and broken jars
heaped in the church dumpster
across the alley from the bar
leave me scratching my scalp.
My bull headed sobriety does not fall
neither does the celibacy that follows
the flowering of walls.
Thirty layers of dust coat a bottle of sparkling cider
saved for my cherry popping party or funeral
whichever arrives first.
Edited by
technovative
on Sat 08/27/22 07:13 PM