Whiskey Bets
In these rooms with the flickering
fixture table settings, cracks in
paint can finish to let in April's
winter chill, spaces for pill cabinets
and stone-faced stairwell scrape of patient's
steel toes as midnight companions,
I still in blank bleaching
of after hours' confidence, same
five electrified scratch signals as before
for driving out eerie peaces of
dusty walls, for keeping steady breathless
of strobing time passed in anticipation.
Counting the minutes between belches
of the bus depot's steam heat clang
and the mystic branding fire
of matured living's lastly dance
upon heath ashes; in anticipation
of the small of Johnnie Walker Red
mingling with cut turf, lotus in
your speaking tones, in the
watery shape you cut of
newspaper headline, wrapped in
Renaissance portrait models.
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