I’ll have four ounces of your tears, please,
on ice,
with a splash of gin,
and a little orange slice,
and a good,
heavy wedge of lemon.
I’ll take, let’s see,
two of your most broken dreams,
extra-jagged edges,
oddly sweet with the sharp remnants
of hope;
let’s grind them up,
perfect seasoning for a salmon,
or even a brook trout,
bringing out the delicate flavor
of the skin.
For the barbecue,
would you mind bringing
a couple hunks of your conscience?
You may have to hunt it down,
as I think it’s on the run,
but it’s the sporting thing to do,
and in this ecology,
it would never survive in the wild anyway.
We can debate the ethics of the hunt
if you can find someone
whose conscience
is still hanging around;
otherwise,
they do roast up a treat.
I don’t think you should flavor your coffee
with so much fear;
adrenaline has a bitter aftertaste,
and really,
you can get the same numbing bitter sense
from Kava tea,
and Kava relaxes you,
whereas fear just makes you jumpy.
And no,
switching to decaf won’t help,
it never does.
If you don’t mind,
let’s share our grief?
Between you and me,
there should be enough for both of
us;
I know you like the lighter cuts
of regret,
and I prefer the darker ones,
and so,
betwixt us,
we’ll clean the platter,
to paraphrase the old rhyme.
And that brings us back to gin,
gin,
gin,
always gin,
when tears run dry,
but need to be shed,
who is your friend?
Gin,
gin,
gin.
They say it’s possible to replace tears
with belief;
but who knows what to believe these days?
No; a sip of gin,
a dollop of pain,
and grim determination.
It hurts;
but we persist.
Life is a painful banquet,
but it is a banquet nonetheless,
and dammit,
I want to see what the next course is.
