Slipping Away

Similar to liquid drips from
the mouth of an alcohol sick.

Like a fading moral fashion
or a dying life breed, I expunge
the memory of things lost.

Lost. Not a polar bear island,
but a way of life that strangles
reason and logic.

Out beyond cubicle thought,
individuals dope out the maze.

In the center, the middle of it all,
promises of prize awaits discovery.

In someone’s home I rest.
The bats have the attic and
I hide where I can.

I meditate in a clothes hamper,
comforting a shadow’s flaws.

Days and nights have been
crouched behind a stained-glass
door listening to families drinking
and playing cards.

Conversations are lip-synched, tired.
Words mumbled as the last of
the vodka trickles down.