you joked: there ought to be
a record, "what's it all about,
alkie?"
that would be funny, if only
records still existed
and your liver could take a joke.
and if only you weren't
still wishing for the burn and tickle
of cheap whiskey, some memory of
fumbling
at brand new bra clasps,
removing whatever got in
your way, without thinking
what comes next or needing
to feel blessed.
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