Monday 2/27/2006 10:27:00 PM

it's coldest when
you drink it straight
from the bottle, and
don't pour it in a glass;

raw palms twist off
sharp caps, coaxing
the callouses from
under their skin;

every night it tastes
different, moods sway,
from mauve like the
evening, winter sky

to brash and scalding
like a bright, snowy day.

it's hard to see yourself,
even with the aid of a mirror;
the more that you look,
the blurry the image becomes;

yellow roses smile, and
white ones tease,
but only the red,
only the red ones -

make you asnwer the questions
you never thought you'd ask.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.