Never enough drinks in me, not quite
what I want, still sober when I start;
and today, this is the day I wake
and begin anew, my head whisked
to the refrigerator by wheelbarrow
where a Black Russian waits for breakfast.
It’s not a good idea this morning,
and the avocado wall telephone rings,
sawing and splitting my ears like logs.
Time to hide in the barn, someone’s
coming for me, the mail not checked
in weeks, and the glancing, pierces, rays
through the blinds—I drop my only drink,
and begin to weep to face anything
so unpromising, like when my father took
me aside sweet seventeen hounding
with the words I’d ruined everything;
when that little girl Kay had full measure
of my smothering and said goodbye;
and when it dawned my rage had the cart
before the horse, I whimpered and drove
the car by a drive thru liquor store,
and talked to a bottle for five hours.
Until noon.
Manny Grimaldi is a Louisville, Kentucky poet, a spit and a cough just west of the "bourbon trail". He is the managing editor for the poetry journal Yearling out of Lexington, Kentucky. Years ago, his drinking got arrested and thrown in jail, and occasionally Manny has marched on its behalf. Manny is also a clown. Personally, and by training.