I can’t walk a straight line
which is just the way life wants me.

My eyes keep meeting at the nose.
My knees jelly-wobble.
My stomach maximizes nausea.

I totter down sidewalks.
Alleyways call out to me.
I wave at them
with the imaginary bottle in my hand.

The vertical is not cooperating.
It prefers the crawling man,
his flawed body floored,
his eyes unashamed to see the sidewalk so close.

Tavern windows report my face back to me,
twisted and grotesque, the color of glass.

What makes a drunk man sober
is the sight of another man even drunker.
I see my reflection twofold.

So, what I am.
is what I could be.
I go inside.
Hey look, I’m already there.