Four in the bloody morning.
Sitting here at the laptop,
sipping the "good" coffee,
I can't help but feel
that old Ray Carver's ghost
is at my elbow.
There was a time in my mercurial youth
when I thought Dylan's thirty-nine was a good run.
I couldn't imagine living another sixteen years,
and then seven more on top of that!
It was four years ago, the 26th.
I walked around the Red Hat
in chilly drizzle for an hour or more,
debating with myself if I should spend
my last twenty on cheap beer.
I had done the math, the alcocalculation:
four Narragansetts plus a tip for Acadia.
Somehow I talked myself out of it,
but that was the day I started to suspect
that I had a problem.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
Read 136 times
Written on 2022-03-23 at 09:27
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