THE DRINKER

The bottle is empty.

Poised above his lips

the last few drops

run down his chin, his neck.

Wiping his mouth on his shirt tail,

he traces the etchings on the bottle,

presses the smooth surface to his cheek.

Unrestrained sobs well from his chest.

"You've hit rock bottom,"

he says to no one.

The sound of his voice is sobering.

"How low can you go, ol buddy?

Down to the foundation,

Down to the bedrock."

He snorts out a laugh.

"Grounded," he says

"Bottomed out."

He pushes away from the table,

knocking over his chair.

Stumbling toward the stairs,

he grasps the bottom rail

and climbs up slowly.