the last drink

always, this late at night, I
come down to the last drink and
look at it with a special
fondness.
usually I’ve had some luck at the
machine and
I reserve the last drink
as
a toast to the gods
who allow me the
luck.

and tonight, I   mean, this early
morning
I’ve thought for the first
time:   last drink?
how about the last drink
forever?

it’s going to happen: the drinks
toll for everybody.

how curious to think of that body
laying there, not wanting a
drink….
you can pour it into my mouth
and
nada
Chinaski?
no, he didn’t join A.A., he
just gave it up on a moment’s
notice:   bingo!
just like
that!

oh yeah?   how can he
write?   he always wrote
drunk.

he doesn’t write
anymore…

a cop-out, eh?   that fucker, I
always told you he was faking
it!

meanwhile, this drink to the
gods…

I look out into the morning
night and
count 8 telephone wires
69 years
2 trees
and that’s all I can
see…

a half-glass left now: one gulp for
the gods, one gulp for
me…

there!

what an arrangement!   what a
triumph as the walls enfold
me
and I move toward the bedroom
followed by music and joy
at my heels: the perfect
last drink
one more
time.