One More Dead Soldier
Unfortunately I prefer Pusser’s Rum…
I drop one more dead soldier in the bin.
The Lord of the lsles, an amber song-smith;
whose meter, like a burn over pebbles,
gave wings to my own nocturnal verse.
A smoke-rich, peaty, heady broth it was.
The lees of which I threw into the bowl
In imitation of the rite of Kottabos,
The drunken calling of a lover’s name.
It rubbed away the pain for me;
Writ large upon my shrivelled soul.
etched deep within my moribund heart.
smarting, stinging, cleansed in fire.
The life it brings is short and sweet.
Defeating as it surely will
all traces of a life fulfilled,
replacing raw feeling with well-finished memory.
The pleasure’s in the bite, behind the throat.
The measure of the malting in it’s depth.
And quietly, in reflection, sitting comfy in my chair;
I reach and pull the cork out of another.