The Pit

Addressed to a stranger.

Poetry on tap.

What's this that you've been drinking?

It reads like a Bible, but

from right to left.

No truth within its fables;

no necessity in its delusions.

 

There's some wine in the fridge.

 

In fact, there's no need to drink.

You don't need to drink to be happy.

I am proof of that.

I can watch others consume,

I can watch the liquid form pools

in the pits of these people, and

I can recline.

 

I do recline.

 

All the while you are writhing,

trying to find a suitable bed-side bucket

because you are sick to your pit.

That foul pit of poetry

that crawls up on the inside,

and comes out of you,

dirtier than rain.