Scotch In A Decanter

Scotch in a decanter.
The klink and swish of ice.
And smoke,
Pulled with a long hiss and crackle.

My blood doesn’t feel sold,
I don’t miss an ounce of flesh here or there.

The weight and sway of the bottle.
The acrid swallow.
My throat raw,
And I’m palming my pockets for matches.

I’d stock-pile insulin if I could.
I’d open a futures market in bone marrow.

The rush of glass on mug.
The crush and sink of a toast.
A trade of burning ash
And pick-pocketing rolling papers.

Am I working the skinny tie?
Or am I smiling through…


-More Verse Coming Soon-

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