Me & Whiskey
Collided hard
Into the back of 1989—
Reaching up just to grab bottom.
Somebody called for an ambulance.
It turned around
& ran the other way,
A metaphor in the making.
You can call me The Great Chief
Of wooden nickels, fled
Bar tabs, demolished
Televisions—passed out
Like promises
In tin-can-strewn yards.
A million tomorrows
Headed anywhere
And—
How savagely I had taken to beating
My children. How they did fall
So easily down.
