There is a gnat in my brandy.
Drunk as spunk, enjoying
the fruits of fermentation, and
I don’t normally drink brandy.
Outside New York was moving.
Always the same, its vastness
so intoxicating that instead of
doing everything, I did nothing.
So I leaned in, whispering:
you know, we are not so
different, you and I. The
best way out is to drink up.
Sometimes I still think of
suicide, just not as often.
New York doesn’t help, too
easy to vanish in its crowds.
The gnat seized its flailing
and I provide no rescue.
Instead I sweep the glass.
Digest well you lucky bastard.
I drop a twenty and step out
among the bodies. I should’ve
saved the brandy for sundown,
see how that worked for the gnat.
Afton Light, 2020
Comments