alcoholic poetry 34

In sturdy vices
I swam.

Long sleeves
not enough.

The demon
with his lunchbox
working like
the rest of us.

On asides.

Unwilling to
trust the stage.

In scenes that
pool as calm and
strategic.

As any liar.

She fluted the
word through a
purse in her lips.

That alone wasn't
a prison, so much
as a an escape.

not that i didn't know.

I'd just never heard
someone say it.

As real as she did.