I am not to be
the poet that sits
and drinks scotch
reaching for the glass
bottom of life.

I cannot find truth
in ice cubes, love
in a wilted paper
napkin, beauty in
the ring left on the table.

My toast is not
for others to hear.

I perch on the stool,
vapors hovering,
the mists of poems
unwritten. I want to
catch them, savor them
as they slide, burning
cold, down my throat,
settling in my soul.

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