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Jan 132010
 

by George Bishop

lightening bolt

When alcohol has lost

its mind there’s never enough

regret and only certain kinds

of weather at the bottom

of too much to drink.


But it kept me sufficiently

distant from everyone else’s

idea of inclemency—

neighbors, kids,

lovers. I kissed

my empty streets

each night.


But emptiness could only fill

so much of a day. Sometimes

a promise decided to live

out its fragile life, become

the small piece of a lie

it finally admits.


And by sleep the rain

was back in the same cloud,

my shadow wore the same dark.

The air I occupied was full

of forecasts that change

as they’re spoken.


Sobriety had stepped back

into the sound of its name

the way thunder catches up

to its lightning.