While contemplating the potential benefits
of becoming a drunken recluse,
writing the nights into oblivion-
the dishes drip in the rack,
bills disappear from the list,
Teeth even get flossed.
Pouring my pain into a tumbler
and drinking it down, only
to smash the glass into satisfying bits,
and repeat. The sound of those shards
crack through mind and all, really, I have to do
is run out and buy cheap booze
and glassware I’m not attached to.