The Whiskey Man
He carried it with him
His own miasma
When he leaned over to kiss me
He left a bit of it behind
A vapor hovered
Above his chair
Lingered in his car
On his clothes
He called it Scotch
But it was whiskey pure and simple
Country of origin irrelevant
He drank it
And drank it
Until he became the whiskey man
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2022-01-31 at 02:51
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