Drinking a Beer
I place one sandaled foot in front of the other,
my platform heels echoing on hardwood floors.
I enter the kitchen.
The floor – sticky;
dirty dish pile sink;
counters and table littered
with overflowing ashtrays
and empty beer bottles.
I open the fridge,
scan the contents,
quickly lock on my target.
My hand enters the open twelve-pack,
grips cold, damp glass,
a sweating label.
I retrieve a Bass.
Using my incisors,
I pry the metal cap off the brown glass bottle,
then turn on my heel
and head to the smoky, debris-filled den
where friends and acquaintances
are in varying stages of inebriation.
I lift the bottle to my mouth,
put my lips to the cold glass,
tilt back my head,
gulp down pale ale like water,
like life bottled,
swallow greedily,
wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
burp and giggle,
then lift the bottle again,
sipping this time.
I finally savor the robust flavor.
Then I chug again,
and the bottle becomes half-empty.
I taste warmth, laughter, sex,
a loosening of the coil.
Later, I may taste anger,
attitude, and adrenaline,
fighting, drama,
but for now,
the taste is
just right.
