Trashed

On the first page of my scroll
I’m in a small provincial city
In a frisky foreign country
The apartments all darkened
Minuscule storefronts shuttered
Hours before a suggested curfew
It’s always a cool and calm evening

My traditional “sober” mask in on
I’m walking past a trim street corner
Where I admittedly shouldn’t be
Alone, wavering and coatless again
Out searching for stirred iced drinks
A fused spiced dark rum that will flow
Allowing me to avoid an empty bed longer

By Amaury Genao

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