The Whiskey Monologues

the pebbles cut diamonds into my knees through cotton stockings as I part flowers and bushes in search of the bottle of winter’s woes. my memory of losing it is hazy, compromised, and wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but you remember, don’t you? disposing the evidence of our drunken debauchery on the sidewalk before you carried me down the long driveway and into your bed. five months later, I crawl through leaves and insects, hoping that the residents and their gardeners haven’t already beaten me to it, the last fossil from that eveningmorning (the hours all blend together, don’t they?). you’re not home, and I’m with people are desperate enough for this liquid courage to wade through nearly 150 days of foliage to accomplish this. but the ground is ugly, the pavement is cold, and our tequila is gone.

midnight doesn’t have the same poetry without you.

Submitted by W.

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