garden variety drunk
the words haven’t come
to me in months
as i sit in the sadness of a september
with no cold air coming
reading poems by poets
who write odes to old taverns
while only drinking three beers a year
and as the empty bottles
collect around me
this mirror stares back
at nothing but
an aluminum can shakespeare
a recycle bin bukowski
just another
garden variety drunk
with little
left to say.
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