Busy, busy. Feel like a Bokonist. Rehab and relapse go hand in hand. Lying and love also go hand in hand. The most intelligent, beautiful and funny woman I have ever met is in this facility. Its supposed to be impossible for someone to be this talented. Beautifully tragic. She hasn’t shaken the habit. Knowing someone you love might not attempt to live her life has placed me in a morose mood. So, here goes a morose poem.
The Eiron Naps
As warm water rushes over the sleek,
slick contours of the bathroom floor.
Mold comes alive in the reservoir
of liquid collecting,
on the tattered, tan throw rug.
His waxen hand dangles
inanimately
over thetubs edge.
The fogged over eyes stare
wistfully at the dimmed bulb
struggling to twinkle
through its glass encased prison.
Contentment is strewn across the
gaunt face of what was once
a hero.
A hero who saved fair damsels in distress,
after downing bottles of Dalmore
or Dewars. A hero
whose only weapons against
the dragons and demons of the night
were a razor and a straw.
A hero to some nonetheless.
Inevitably, Jim Morrison’s voice
bleeds
out of the small AM/FM radio
perched
upon the bathroom counter.
