And so I resolve to go sober.

I laid on the top bunk and stared at the ceiling,
less than a nightmare away from my face.
Racket and Ruckus fucked outside my window,
and as they erupted, a small thought occurred

‘you should quit drinking,’
the tiny thought whispered,
‘you should quit UHAUL and you should quit sulking’
‘you should also refer to yourself in
first person’

I’m pretty sure Hump wrote that last one, but still.
It forced me to reckon with what I get out of,
or FEEL I get out of, a drink in my
hand.

For starters, I feel it is writer’s aesthetic.
Like smoking in pool halls. I don’t make these rules.
The poet sits lonely but fearful of people,
and bounces their line breaks off corks, quarts,
and coasters.

Deeper, I feel it is grown and rewarding.
A bitter burn trophy for not getting hurt on
the drive home from 16 damn hours at work.
Kids have their toys and TVs to come home to.
Grown folks have Pabst Better-Luck-Next-Time
Ribbons.

DEEPER, I feel it grants (sl)easy excuse to
articulate things I
desire.

And that is a sad thing that cannot be fixed by
unsloshing my crossed heart
alone.