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by Chesai Author IconMail Icon
Rated: 18+ · Monologue · Personal · #1060031
Newbie First ever poem and first ever submission to anyone, anywhere
Last Call

I have earned it
No, I deserve it
Better yet, I earned it so I deserve it.

"Back in a minute," the door
closes behind.
Start the car, breathe warmth into my
clenched hands.

Squinting through a fogged windshield
heart at a trotter's pace.

What's your hurry, bud?
You know damn well what my hurry is.

Do I want this?
You earned it.
I'll feel like shit.
You deserve that, too.

Headlights glare,
exposing me for what I have become

A drunk

Roll into town, leave the car running
the door
a
jar
I jog in at a rushed pace
Not really moving fast, but giving me the illusion of moving fast
what's your hurry?

I earned it, damnit
This is my earned and therefore deserved reward.

Scrounging for money,
deep into pockets digging for wadded bills and
hastily gathered change

Whoops!
Back to the car to dig up some change
left in the
coffee soaked cup-holder.

Back, stupid grin
victorious with my sticky booty.
Pay off the clerk,
avoiding his pissy look.

Fuck him, I earned this.

Driving back home
chastising myself

If this is so great,
why do you feel so bad?

Who gives a shit,
I earned
it, motherfucker.

Creeping along, crawling really,
my prize riding comfortably in back.

Roll back into the drive, headlights off
nobody will notice,
damn I'm slick
carefully stash it in the fridge in the garage

Walk in, opening the door like a thief,
moving, catlike into

MY OWN FUCKING HOME

Pop open the first one,
cold
crisp, with just enough bite.

Just like the first cigarette of the day.
Initial rush, feeling mellow,
buzzed.

Done already?
Damn, you drink like a fish, son.
Army training, Sir! HA!

Paw through the fridge for my second and third
(one for the road a leering grin at my own inside joke to myself)

Where are they? Ah yes,
in the crisper!
Another grin

Two becomes three, three...four...

Back to the garage
as my drunk kicks in
almost fall into the car

Exagerrated lean helps me from falling in a
noisy,
foamy
heap.

Hide empties,
smothered in the trash under the filth

She won't look there

Crash on the couch
lights are still on
TV is strobelighting the room

Fuck it
I'll get
it

later







© Copyright 2006 Chesai (chesai at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1060031-Last-Call