I find myself these days,
wanting to pull it out
from another bottle.
Often, in the morning—
or just after high-noon.
I’d start drinking it—
feeling the warmth;
Letting go of my own control—
letting myself become swished
until all my words are smelt,
sipped, and swallowed—
or else spat into a flower pot.
Just a glass or two would do me.
But I try really hard not to
drink while writing because
after all these years,
most of those poems
have already been written—
and I’m trying my best to stay original;
At least on weekdays, before dinnertime.

And I figure, those others that came before—
even their corpses can drink me under the table,
so that is why I am at my best, the sober poet—
letting life ferment just a little bit longer
before I pull my cork out
to be drizzled over salad.

written on 12/27/2010 by: Matt Kane