The Drunkard

Gravity pulls hard on the drunkard,
shifting time in alleys.

Prophets born in bottles
spin circles around the edge
of everything he never was
as expected whatnots thunder in his ears,

He binds his back to brick
and trumps his dreams,
sliding into blackness.

Nothing mends his world
like tomorrow’s waiting dog.

Brenda Warren 2013


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19 thoughts on “The Drunkard

  1. Your poem describes what I knew of The Town Drunk in a little place in Kansas where I grew up, although I didn’t know at the time that he was seeking prophets in bottles. Somehow, I thought it was only comfort.


  2. Not sure whether tomorrows waiting dog is his hangover or a neighborhood mutt on his morning walk distributing his news. Either way the picture was clear and brought a smile to my face.


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