Like an apple drop, the third of myself
facing the autumn sun is turning soft
brown amid the dried up leaves.
Hard cider is my next reincarnation
and soon I think before the snow flies.
Ah, the smack of Vodka against the back
of the throat at four in the afternoon is
like Edmund O’Brien giving Jimmy Cagney
absolution before the warden pulls the switch.
Of course the alcoholic in me would tell you
neither was a priest nor on death row,
but we all know that and it makes no difference.
So I say swallow me Lord as I swallow thee.
Go ahead cast the first stone, duck and cover,
drop and grovel to put out the fire - it will do
you no good which is ironic because
nothing in this world helps, but alcohol does.