Beat. No drum. How does that work–
with syllable, talk.. people watch, I continue, even
if I have nothing prepared. Quiet everything around
me. More wine.. I’m affected,
honestly. Blend, Bordeaux, my yielding, more
so. Obsessing in war woes; mediate over chess,
soup stress. Ravenous roam, repaint my home.
By different rhythm bitten; fit in fission, only with
permission; interrogated by man with tie crumbs–
will he be mad if I laugh?
I don’t care what editors think.. I’m sipping more
Meritage. Camera pan left.. glass empty. Who me–
Ran over 5 miles, like I should, but I miss the calories.
SO I pour another glass. It’s wine. Big deal. Could be
whisky. But who drinks whisky? Not writers. Right?