Korliss Sewer

This is the day it would finally end.  It’s Monday:  I always start over on Mondays.

Mother says I look tired, but I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m drunk.  It is the Old Taylor Syndrome:  “Dear Lord.  I’ll never do it again if you can get me out of this one” type of day.  It’s Monday, and an oddly quiet night at the bar and grill.  No music, no idling motors.  Just a stirring of liquor in ice-filled glasses.  Even booze didn’t bring the party. I pull up a bar stool next to Stephen, and hold his drink for him, lean across his wheelchair, ask what’s new.  He says it is Monday, tells me polka dots are black holes to alternate universes.  Polka dots are always black.

It’s Monday:  And he kind of looks like a dog at this angle.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on August 1, 2012, in Korliss Sewer, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Korliss Sewer, who’s sent in some unusual poetry. But I’ve enjoyed reading all of it, and this is the first.

  2. An intresting post liking the play with polka dots

  3. Thank you for the big welcome! Nice to be “here.” :-D

  4. Thank you so much, Bruce. Polka dots are fascinating freaks of nature!

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