Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/AXzC9pew07w) 11.09.2022.
Last Drink
He often sat by the dim light of his dying days
empty cans littering a Persian spotted by tears
fingers stained by another addiction.
Struggling to alight the nicotine fix
eyes glued to the screen where words dance
he takes another long sip of bubbly yeasts.
He has retired from the common paths
his voice silent to mundane conversations
and seeks contact with a world beyond language.
Lost in a city where all fulfill a traced destiny
he finds no place inside conference rooms
assembly lines and cubicles that resemble home.
But his refuge is of strange molasses
blood mixed of tar and cheap nectars
a poison he takes so he may live or he may die.
Landscapes desperate to come to life
beg for him to stay and love them still
as he cries in an agony beyond our grasp.
Today he is gone, this young soul of fifty
drowned in a river of unending sadness
his blue eyes closed on the dreams he did write.
About the Author: Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in Front Porch Review, San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
