Carl Scharwath, Jazz Dance
It’s Monday Afternoon and I Think I’m a Hero Because
I’m Starting to Drink Later Today Than I Did Yesterday.
Kendra Whitfield
No. Not a hero.
A saint.
At least a martyr.
The cocktail I’m sipping is called “Death in the Afternoon”
and isn’t that apt on a day hazy with lassitude and drifting
wildfire smoke?
I suppose I should be thankful that the fires are far away–
I live in a forest, after all–
but all I am is thirsty.
Ernest Hemingway invented this drink–
absinthe-laced champagne–
instructed people to drink four or five in quick succession.
I once wished for a man who could drink like Hemingway.
Back when I was single for the second time,
a blind date ordered green apple vodka and Sprite.
It seemed so effeminate a libation that I could not take him seriously.
So I wished for a man who could drink manly drinks in a manly way.
But, you know what they say about wishes . . .
Now I drink like Hemingway–
no bullfights, no lions, no marlins–
just me, facing down the afternoon,
longing, I suppose,
for oblivion.
That’s what absinthe does.
It obliviates.
Fear. Indecision.
Sanity.
It’s Monday afternoon and I could be
mowing my lawn,
or fighting a fire.
Instead I’m dancing with
the Green Fairy and regretting
all the choices that brought me to this space.
That’s a lie.
Some of my choices weren’t bad.
Most of them, though,
from this verdant, smoke-filled vantage,
most of them were terrible.
Given the chance, I’d make them all again.
I told you I was a martyr.
I’m Starting to Drink Later Today Than I Did Yesterday.
Kendra Whitfield
No. Not a hero.
A saint.
At least a martyr.
The cocktail I’m sipping is called “Death in the Afternoon”
and isn’t that apt on a day hazy with lassitude and drifting
wildfire smoke?
I suppose I should be thankful that the fires are far away–
I live in a forest, after all–
but all I am is thirsty.
Ernest Hemingway invented this drink–
absinthe-laced champagne–
instructed people to drink four or five in quick succession.
I once wished for a man who could drink like Hemingway.
Back when I was single for the second time,
a blind date ordered green apple vodka and Sprite.
It seemed so effeminate a libation that I could not take him seriously.
So I wished for a man who could drink manly drinks in a manly way.
But, you know what they say about wishes . . .
Now I drink like Hemingway–
no bullfights, no lions, no marlins–
just me, facing down the afternoon,
longing, I suppose,
for oblivion.
That’s what absinthe does.
It obliviates.
Fear. Indecision.
Sanity.
It’s Monday afternoon and I could be
mowing my lawn,
or fighting a fire.
Instead I’m dancing with
the Green Fairy and regretting
all the choices that brought me to this space.
That’s a lie.
Some of my choices weren’t bad.
Most of them, though,
from this verdant, smoke-filled vantage,
most of them were terrible.
Given the chance, I’d make them all again.
I told you I was a martyr.