I’ve made this one before, usually after we fought.
The mescal was a last resort, after sampling its co-conspirators:
on whiskey, on vodka, on sloe gin and bourbon,
on SoCo, on Seagram’s, on straight shots of Jameson.
I’d curl up in the backseat,
parked at the perfect angle due east,
windows up to stave off that bitter bite of dew,
the first rays would illuminate my eyelids
like a spotlight on a fleeing prisoner.
I’d contort myself to burrow
my face in the crease of the fabric,
sometimes finding
coins
or keys
or weed
from other forgetting nights.
The throbbing of my head and hot
incarcerating air
would jar me from a restive slumber.
I’d crawl up front,
turn the key,
and lower the windows,
creaking as the battery had
just enough juice
to make me worry that it’d died.
A glance at the resurrection displayed before me,
clouds fleeing before Apollo’s creaky chariot,
bleeding yolks dripping over warehouses and shipyards.
Distant maggot workers scurry onto forklifts and panel vans,
angry anthill come alive like
I’d poured a childhood soda down its sandy hole.
How did I get here, so fast,
mere minutes from carefree youth?
My lingering wistful, remnant hope
is to rest my weary head
and let the pain evaporate like ambition.
But only after I admire the sunrise,
and a sip of your bitter juice,
no salt,
no lime,
just you.