Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Whisky Run


The botched way they lap the sauce

and maneuver the handle of the cup
is outwardly dexterous, in the inner
fist made with curling hand and cup
handle lifted aloft in the wee hours.


If you don’t buckle your seat belt,

air bags won’t do much to keep you
from looking for generic wheels in
the junkyard, a dead driver’s body
mass bent to be a well-aimed bullet.

Drive fast, up and out and leave life

for somebody more practical to live.
Far flung, through the windshield.
No matter your age, too unlucky to
expire, stand by while the cars stop. 

Pickups are the best way to die in all

lugubrious instances. Leave off cars,
those badly out of date. Go on dates
with war orphans and talk weapons.
Younger she is the more she knows.


In an alley, sleep. Of mornings, wake.

Too much sauce on the gander’s beak
is a peril on ice. Goose me a compact
condom if the lass isn’t looking here,
meat too far from the bones rattling.

(9 April 2013: II)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander

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