An elusive hour,
promoted and pushed
to daytime drinkers,
the social swills
who reminisce of
when they were kings
with a body made prescribed
to a heart that sings.
Pour enough
to enjoy,
without too much
to lose.
Turning my glass
into a centrifuge.
Mixing sip to rim,
rim to swig,
swig to comfort
in feeling dim.
Awake,
fucking with fatigue,
dragged in drugged delicacy.
Swear to slow
before it grabs a grip on me.
Awake,
into another dream,
where everything is
just as it seems.
One less thing
that a mint can disguise,
One more son’s
failed attempt to rise.
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