shout-me-a-wine requiem
let’s just say
it is a little more
than an obligatory action of mine
this person from outside my circle
a colleague with whom I visit
in a room of four walls and melancholy
bed linen unshaken for some months under a retrospective
painting of poker-playing dogs
in the tobacco-stale atmosphere his unshaved haven
and I feel the end of it all when I arrive
his words composed in a collection
rudely on top of each other
like the swaying tower of bourbon bottles in the kitchen,
shoves some red wine into my 9am face,
the tip-toeing around his verses and luck
and mine and politics and protocols
and amidst the death march he asks, within a staccato of our
banter
“so how do you get published?”
over and over like an echo, this sour requiem I endure
and yes, yes I am glad
there is no longer heroin in this place
no sharps, no nothing
yet, cheap red wine and regurgitated
memories of a young woman
wakes a bad taste in my mouth
“You have to submit your stuff to the literary mags...”
“I have!”
sun trying to bend the dust-caked blinds
little death hands down my back
knowing 1 could write better in there with him
but no, whilst there are more negotiations as I reach for the door
some plans to have dinner with Sarah and I in the future,
sometime
“can I grab some money from ya ... shout me another wine?”