Sometimes it take a magic potion
to embellish this killing and lackluster life.
But in the throat, heat in the gullet,
spreading serenity throughout the soul.
Wild Turkey. More than fifty percent alcohol
living in a house of glass.
Such potent promise visible through
the mundane fragile vessel.
After a few, this fool on the label
could be you, tasting false freedom,
raggedly airborne within the barbed
confines of your coop.
Until the week of Thanksgiving,
you swagger and preen before the hens,
all bristling tailfeathers and barnyard humor.
Knowing your fate could not possibly change it.
Booze is the only way some days
may be lived, those fretful days
when you ceaselessly picture
your neck on the block,
your innards heaped up
in a cellophane pouch,
and bread crumbs jam-packed
where your heart used to be.