Drinking in the Storm

Like it’s the last bottle on the shelf

Clouds are moving — what kind of day is it going to be? Photo by Jeevan Jose on Unsplash

I’ve been wasted
all day.

My head gets in the
way of my heart pen
working circles around my
inner kneejerk – that’s not the path to the
Light! – as if
I needed another scream
to self-actualize out of the
pothole
or sinkhole or
abyss – whatever dark name you want
to use
as my excuse for writing this.

On a day I couldn’t smile
till she came again
and wiped away the oil
of my reverie
with satin and sage
and I am
drinking in the thunder
like it’s the last
bottle on the shelf.

Then someone goes
running by
and I don’t know whether to laugh or giggle
so it winds
up being both at once
and I keep
knowing that I am found in spite
of the
rain that didn’t come
to shake itself out
of monstrous clouds.