The Long Thaw

The ice waters down my whiskey as I sit on the patio.

I enjoy the musical clinks they make as I swirl the liquid.

The trickle of cold-fire douses my throat.

Though the ice never lasts long.

The condensation on the glass becomes my sweat.

I get up, again, and refill the drink with ice.

I glance down at the sausages in my yellowing kitchen.

They thaw in the sink.

Fatty, pink, glistening meat.

That will be blackened in the pan that is no longer non-stick.

The heat ruins all the beauty and reduces it to a puddle of salt.

I’ll keep drinking my whiskey on the rocks.

Til the thawing is done.

 

 

 

 

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