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The Night of My Ten-Year Reunion
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True story. Well besides from the bottle talking to me. I didn’t go to my high school reunion for various reasons—one being that I don’t feel I’ve done anything that remarkable since I’ve graduated, and didn’t want to find out other chumps I’ve gone to high school with have. The poem stems from that.
I stay home, drinking from a bottle of scotch, aged twelve years.
Did you ever want to be more than this, I ask it.
Sure. Well what then? A Molotov cocktail. How about you? I don’t know. A poet, I guess. You and I kid, we aren’t that different, it tells me. As I take another swig,
I can feel my skin turn to glass,
my booze-soaked guts burning,
and all I want is to throw myself
against this world, shatter and explode
into one great fireball people won’t soon forget.
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