Same
Sitting outside the same bar, shooting the same shit,
not smoking cigarettes with the same smokers
taking drag after drag from simple paper
tubes, identical to the ones that took Nana,
even smell about the same—just about since
not smoking cigarettes with the same smokers
taking drag after drag from simple paper
tubes, identical to the ones that took Nana,
even smell about the same—just about since
I don’t know anyone alive who smokes
Winston full flavors the way Nana did,
the way I did, too, albeit secondhand—
I take a drink of my beer she’d disapprove of me
drinking slightly less than she would
the many beers I’ve had before this, half
Winston full flavors the way Nana did,
the way I did, too, albeit secondhand—
I take a drink of my beer she’d disapprove of me
drinking slightly less than she would
the many beers I’ve had before this, half
of many a round—that includes shots,
including Fernet, bourbon, and an Underberg
if you’re comfortable calling a whole bottle
a shot since it is small and sold on grocery
store shelves, right next to the Angostura,
Grenadine, and cocktail onions no one buys
for Gibsons no one drinks.
including Fernet, bourbon, and an Underberg
if you’re comfortable calling a whole bottle
a shot since it is small and sold on grocery
store shelves, right next to the Angostura,
Grenadine, and cocktail onions no one buys
for Gibsons no one drinks.
They call it non-potable, Underberg, giving
too much credence to me and my friends
and our ability, or willingness, to stop
drinking when something tastes bitter enough
to send a signal from our tongues to our brains
that what we are putting in our mouths is poison.
too much credence to me and my friends
and our ability, or willingness, to stop
drinking when something tastes bitter enough
to send a signal from our tongues to our brains
that what we are putting in our mouths is poison.
Could be we’re just too great of thinkers to listen
when we know this little bottle of poison couldn’t
hurt us more than this little glass, this big bottle,
these little cylinders filled with dried, tainted tobacco
you don’t even have to puff on to die from, like a fire
in an apartment next door we have no responsibility
for setting ablaze, but it’ll reach us all the same.
when we know this little bottle of poison couldn’t
hurt us more than this little glass, this big bottle,
these little cylinders filled with dried, tainted tobacco
you don’t even have to puff on to die from, like a fire
in an apartment next door we have no responsibility
for setting ablaze, but it’ll reach us all the same.
Deron Eckert is a writer and poet who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Strange Horizons, Door is a Jar, Ghost City Review, Maudlin House, The Fourth River, and elsewhere. He can be found on Instagram at deroneckert and Twitter @DeronEckert.
Beaver Magazine 