Breathe, sip, and stare.
Whisky on the porch
on a still evening
just after dark.
The engraved crystal tumbler
passing between my hands
gives my fingers something to do –
they dance over the grooves.
No one moves
as isolation drags on –
the city bus
empty, every ten minutes
marks the stagnant time, stewing.
Breathe, sip, and stare.
This is what it feels like
waiting for the ink to dry
on a blip of history.
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