Wildfire
Sip This
When it stinks, stay
Geronimo’s hair
Oranges
Poetry Poem
Bronzeville by Night (1949)
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Whiskey
Whiskey was the woman, who
waited with coal misery and darkness.
Woke me hidden in corners of this room
drifting off somewhere with Coltrane.
Whiskey is this woman, looking me in the face
with one hand at my neck, raking my throat
The other pushes broken glass into my gut.
All with caring eyes, that wry smile on her face.
The one that sneers, you should have known
from the beginning, because you were warned.
Whiskey will be that woman
lurking just around the corner
drown cold in wait, lying for me
with promises, preying on Sunday.
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