A
Poem in the
Before Choice Disturbs collection
Drunken Whisper
"Come here,"
you
breath into my ear,
with your
vodka tinted breath;
arm around my
shoulder,
as you
whisper off in a
rabid rash.
You once took a man's
face,
his
gaping jaw embraced the
sidewalk,
and you
crashed your
booted
foot over his
head.
With your eyes
all red from the late hour
and cheap liquor,
you sing your praises.
Curbing this guy;
curbing your appetite with
this violent scrap.
You smile, telling me how easy it is:
lifting your foot
to the proper height,
showing me the stomping force.
I watch, not looking away,
to catch the lift and smash and shake
as I feel the linoleum tremble.