Peach Soju and 75

Peach Soju and a Saturday is therapy
For an exhausted educator lost before
a date night, lost in self diagnosed leprosy
Jesus can't cure this self loathing.

Neither can a French 75 going through
an identity crisis, not dissimilar to Beirut.
An empress without an empire at 80 proof
that god exists, a heavenly portal passing clues.

Reflections in the garden pool, visions of cheering
in the bleachers of coffee shops in the financial
district. Bliss mixed with lipstick, how do two
worlds live so distant? I'd be remiss if I were reminiscent.

Sweet potato rolls into me with the full force of
hunger that will not be tamed or made lame,
Biting limbs in limbo, memories in remnant,
with an hour of pen, notebook, and drinks akimbo.

Simple, syrupy anxiety mixed with prosecco,
garnished with lime, in time it'll ebb with the tide
of friends singing happy birthday to Sara in rhyme.
Like any good friends, they'll line the streets
where dreams are fined.

Closed eyes with the slivers of mind the size of
timbers, rendered speechless by limber tongues
energized with adhd and the confidence of
Charles Lindbergh. Silver linings are just low grade
competition to golden rinds and (singe)d curls

Images of Great Aunt Peg,
younger than me in grade 3,
Uncanny resemblance to herself at 80,
The streets of Davis square are full of life, rain,
and lovers drunk on whiskey, soju, or coffee.

Michael Carney