I reach for the beer glass

but the glass isn't much.

I reach the paper

but the parchment has gone stale

and crumbled


I reach for the woman

for thigh

for small of the back,

but she has taken

into unshaven arms

of sleep

and snores


I Reach for the pill

but someone's hid the bottle.

Whiskey makes me sweat

great floods of violence,

sharp words with dagger tongues.

Beer boils yearning

into my blood.


So I reach

for the words

but they too

have dried, withered,

and no longer make sense.