The Lovely Dregs
“My kitchen has a fever.
I’ve been waiting too long.
Shoes filled with blood.
I’m meant to be an orchid,
not a firebomb. I’m-”
Jacob Miller often wished
that he could
slow down his thoughts.
Tame them. Pin them.
Find quiet.
“Chin up. Keep treading
water. My ankles are solid.
Impact on repeat,
I have armor.”
He was unraveling.
Legitimately. Unraveling.
His day had been a barracuda.
A cutthroat labyrinth.
Brutal, vicious. Put plainly
he was done. Ready for
a drink.
“I’ll get where I’m going.
There’s nowhere too far.”
Outside tasting smog
he unfolded his sail,
and flew to
his favorite bar.
Pablo’s Tequila & More.
“L.A. is a rifle. Prickly streets
and mayhem.”
He needed a heavy pour.
Arriving his tension dropped
some. Automatically.
He found the neon
and mixed emotion comforting.
Still, there were blades.
The bartender recognized
her patient, gave him
a familiar nod. Asked,
“What are you drinking?”
He ordered the Trouble Trouble.
A double stock margarita,
with delightful splashes of
homemade hot sauce.
Extra hot.
“I see peace so why am I
checking my iphone?
Maybe I’m addicted
to drama. Chaos.
Breaking news.”
Twitter didn’t help. He
saw some clown politician
yelling about fences.
Crying about gold.
He watched an execution.
With the smallest shudder he
turned his iphone off, and buried it
in his pocket.
The bartender gave him eyes
that asked,
“You straight?”
Jacob Miller finished his glass,
nodded, and gestured for another.
He told her,
“People can be pretty fucky.”
She poured the dose,
and thought about equilibrium.
Smoky blankets. Tiny victory.
She cracked a smile.
“They can be. There’s beauty
on this ride too. We’re doing
what we can.”