25 July 2016

Six Empty Cans Line the Wall Across the Way

Six empty cans line the wall across the way.
All are crumpled, turning rusty at their split corners.
I emptied their contents days ago.
Straight into my gullet.
Six full cans, they were, of lager.
Red sash across a white blazer, they wore.
Six tins of regal liquid, golden, pale, quenching.
I was thirsty, later, sure;
Thirstier, even, than I was before.
My head throbbed, too.
That was not the knighted cans' fault, no.
No, that was the chaser, the own-brand chaser.
Or it was the food I ate, held down, barely.
One of the two, or maybe both:
The stale sesame bun – allergic, I know –
But I was hungry.
And with the eclipse slab of burger meat,
Bitten and thrown to the trash, washed
Down with the dark liquor,
It was not so bad, not the worst meal.
No use crying now.
No use retching a dry retch at the memory.
Nor at previous life, nor divorced, gorgeous wife.
Keep staring at the cans on the wall across the way.
Do not blink.
They might refill themselves up.
And I don't want to miss that miracle.
But my stomach does rumble, questioning.
I have no answers, I am unsure why I am here.
Not to matter.
I keep staring at the cans across the way.


Created: 20 July 2016. Version 1.0.





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