In life I have found that
Whiskey sours and old fashioneds
Will always be my greatest vice
As well as my closest confidant

The glass hits my lips
And within the next ten minutes
I am no longer compelled
To pick my cuticles

I no longer feel the wrath
Of anxiety’s unseen brush burn
Or depression’s mighty choke hold
For once, I can breathe easy

Every fleeting thought of total apprehension
Is replaced by feelings of contentment and bliss
But soon, my eyes become glassy
While my body grows weary

And I descend into a deep slumber
Slowly sinking into the barstool
With my head on the counter
In a blue collar town

Went to Vincent’s again.
There’s a Charles Bukowski poem
trapped in a tombstone
inked on his ribs.
Bluebird.
He put a broken record on.

Sat across from him,
drinking.
“I’ve never met a girl that likes old-fashioneds.”
His heroes stared strangely,
judgmental portraits glaring
from frozen white walls.

It was Joni Mitchell’s birthday.
A text from Vincent, unread.
“I’ve looked at love from both sides now.”

Put the glass down.
Go home.