Apt. 4A

A few hours in the life of a drunk. : )

It couldn't have been more than 35 or so
in my apartment that night
heat had been shut off
for a few days by now
there was a half empty bottle
of warm beer
across the room on a table,
maybe I could crawl across the room
with the blanket
on top of me,
or roll myself up
in the blanket,
and roll across the floor—
it was getting dark outside
I’d have to hurry and make up my
mind—what was left of it
poets, we don’t usually have much going on
upstairs
not when we’re sober anyway—
and I was sobering up
quick
I might be able to bang my head on the wall
hard enough as so
Sara in 4A
would hear me and come rushing over
to my rescue
she rushes in and screams:
Jake, Jake—are you ok? Here let me warm your shivering bones with my 44 DDs?
Or maybe she’s just bringing me a bottle of tequila and a pack of smokes.