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When the whiskey is gone

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HomePoetryWhen the whiskey is gone

After the pain when the whiskey is gone
the formaldehyde freezing in my bones
as the catheter drips, my blood’s martini
into the bedpan’s—Code Red, beeping
like a dying alarm clock with no fallen
angels in this room, only interns flipping
through my chart’s pages of a hymnal
and deck of cards humming through my
thorax, a flat line lullaby—Code Red,
after the pain when the whiskey is gone 

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    4 COMMENTS

    1. Dear AA,

      When the whiskeys gone there’s no point to going on. I think you’ve described the grim world without the amber glow very well. Cheers to hiding a bottle or two. H🌷

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