the awing
of the seven eleven,
shivering
in cold rain, he'd
be sucking
on a cigarette as if
that was his
only means of breathing.
the whites of his
eyes would be filled with blood
from drink.
his hands would
tremble
as he reached for
the door, and climbed in.
the whiskey
rose from his skin.
why do you
drink so much, i'd ask him.
what makes
you do this to yourself?
he'd laugh.
when i'm sad, i drink,
he said,
to help me with my blues.
and when
i'm happy, when
i have a pocket full
of money and a place to sleep,
i drink even more in
celebration.
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