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“The Bottle”
I look over at the bottle,
Standing tall on the end table,
Next to my arm chair.
The paper seal still intact,
Shot glass upside down next to it.
I pick the bottle up and read the words,
That are written on the label.
As if I was going to read something new,
On a label I've read a 1,000 times.
Then I inspect the seal glued over the cap,
A flimsy strip of paper,
Acting as the rear guard,
Protecting the bottle,
Against its first pour.
Once that last line of defense is broken,
The bottle's death,
Is always within 24-hours.
I think of the phrase,
“Dead Man Walking”,
As I set the bottle back down,
On the end table,
And turn the shot glass,
Right-side up.
I'm just not sure,
If I'm talking about the bottle.
Or me.
I wasn't going to drink today,
But with just a few words,
She changed all that.
I wish I smoked,
Because this scene is missing something,
And I feel like,
It might be a cigarette.
But what do I know,
I don't even own an ash tray.
I play a favorite record,
Trying to forget her,
And fight the bottle.
But her words still burn through me,
As the bottle looms over me.
So I lean over and pick it up again,
Staring at the label,
But not really focusing,
On any of the writing.
The seal doesn't really put up,
Much of a fight.
The rear guard is broken,
With just a slight twist of the wrist.
I pour my first shot,
Screw the cap back on,
And set the bottle back down,
On the end table.
Why did she have to say those words?
I guess I'm glad I don't smoke,
I don't really have any room left,
On my end table,
For an ash tray,
Anyways…
Tom Allen…12-25-2016…