To the bitter’s end

Where there was,

in better times,

a glass menagerie

of debauchery

tinted delicate shades

of green and brown

there now sits a
single
short

bottle

an oversized label

concealing the truth

of its middling contents.

In better times

it was dashed

like a Caribbean sprinter

into Manhattans

and Tamil Tingles

and in the shank of the evening

it turned

lovers
hunters
fighters

into supermen.

And many things change
if you turn back time
but the short bottle
with the yellow cap
remains
with Spartan endurance.

And now we sip bitter-coffee
and move without plan

or regret
for better times.

Toast and Coffee

Jam was spread

on toast

long since grown cold.

The newspaper was spread

on the table

The news had grown cold too

but that didn’t matter so much.

It didn’t become rough

and chewy.

It was always rough

and never chewy

no matter

how long you left it.

I had no need for news.

All I wanted

was to sit alone

and toast

with a solitary

cup of coffee.

Thy King Dumb Come

I am a sinner

and I shall sin again.

I find absolution

not in the wine

I receive from the preacher’s hands

but in the whisky witch

I take into my own.