Thursday, April 29, 2010

Blind Drunk

Groping forward
her cane feeling
for the walkway
the bag she carries

Bud Ice rolls
into the street
as she cries out
in fear of a darkness
that can swallow
more than the colors
of the sun.

The bluest of skies
her backdrop
she curses,
kneels to grasp
the only savior
that she knows.

She doesn't want my help.

And anyway
I am loathe to gather up
another's poison.

It's only Bud.

Even a frothy
stein of Weissbier
sweetened by raspberry
tart with a lemon slice
isn't worth death.

Copyright 2010

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