The Garden

To-- the Drunk Man

To-- the Drunk Man.

You do not slur-- your words

And your cheeks are-- not red.

Your nose, however, blooms-- like

An apple,

Left too long

On the branch.

You are childlike--

You shed the weights

All are

Heirs to

As you plant

Kisses

On our cheeks

To grow

And flower.

I understand--

I guess--

Your need for

Your drink.

Sour fumes blur-- your sorrows

And the nausea is only

A side effect of an--

Ephemeral ecstasy.

You live-- a living dream

And consequences

Can be faced

Some

Other

Day.

To-- the Drunk Man.

I hope

You find

Happiness-- and

Relief--

Elsewhere,

Instead of inside

Your fragile bottle.