Landays for a Drunk
after four siblings attempted to save the fifth
Old man, we found you comatose, near death in dark piss and mice. You mumbled you were sleepy. Best sleep’s for lovers’ restoration. Your sleep pulled you down into lonely oblivion. It’s reptilian, this reaching for vodka, a force that through the green fuse drives the flower. Put your hat on, homo sapiens, brim and crown, and protect your brain’s regeneration. Put your shoes on, homo erectus, and walk out the door of your filthy cave forever. Your legs are thin as bed slats. Who would curl around them and on what blue‐and‐white striped ticking? Sober you are haughty. You forget by drinking your way into abject humility. Worm, low as you are, you’re not humble. What makes you feel superior to nearby farmers? Your wife left you with a bottle in your mouth, infant boy she had put up for adoption. It’s safer to take a rescue dog than an ashen pink sot with fur growing at the nape. Moon has no hope of companionship, yet it revels in contours, rebirth, and reflection. May you soon be the moon, water to sun’s fire, ease in solitude, light rimming your head. May you soon be the moon, travel great heights, all-seeing, an owl, head orbiting on a branch.
Quote from Dylan Thomas, “The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower.”