I like to think about Charlie and me.
I would be his maiden,
and he would be my king.
We’d bathe in his rivers
of cascading red and white wines;
snickering at pervy thoughts
in geysers of champagne.
He would be the owner of vast lands of verses.
We would dance with trollops.
He’d place white daisy rings upon their hair.
The young ladies would sit in his lap
singing songs rejoicing in the voice of Sibelius
and of gospel songs seeking the strength of God.
Charlie and me would wake and stare into the ceiling,
trying to recall who we were and why we were,
only to soak away our memories hours later,
with brown buttery libations and carbonated beers.
He would call me queen as we elevated into debauchery.
His porous face would say to me, “Another one, my dear?”
We’d break the bed, the front legs collapsing,
he’d scream delightfully as I enveloped his engorged manhood;
only to fall asleep on top of me, without any relief.
I’d listen happily to his vinegary breath blanketing me.
This would be the life of Charlie and me
Saturdays, we’d celebrate like it’s Monday.
$2 drink specials starting at 10 am.
Calling rank at our bar stools,
Corner, right side where the bartender reads.
His eyes are drooping and glaring at me,
red faced from glowing lights of Budweiser signs.
Slurring softly, he says, “C’mere, lemme smell your cunt.”
Charlie likes to hold my hand while he stares
out the window clutching his two buck chuck.
“Hey Charlie!” I scream, but he doesn’t notice me.
He’s off daydreaming of gold fishes and one armed boys;
I’m losing him; he stops recognizing me.
The sickness consumes him.
The rivers dry, the verses wither,
and all the trollops have new dance partners.
He lays his head back and his lips part slightly,
I tip the bottle, the gin flows into his mouth,
then it falls out, trickling down his chin,
pooling around his neck.
I weep for Charlie and me.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 