Monday, December 12, 2011

Jug Of Wine by Vince Fitzpatrick

Sunday afternoon and
Matt bought a poorboy of port wine.
We lugged the jug to his favorite
back alley drinking hangout.
Walking along the famished side streets
of low-rent areas.
No one notable ever walked these streets,
neither Hem, Faulkner, Ginsberg,
Frank O’Hara.
The sun never rose for anyone around
I wondered if a few rays would shine
on this midnight scribbler, sometime
haiku artist?
We proceeded to kill the jug in this
narrow shaded alley between two
tall buildings.
I leaned back against the wall
to arc piss to the opposite wall.
No go.
Brimming with winey confidence,
Matt followed.
He didn’t reach it either.

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