While contemplating the potential benefits

of becoming a drunken recluse,

writing the nights into oblivion-

the dishes drip in the rack,

clothes agitate,

bills disappear from the list,

replies send.

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.