By Zebulon Huset
You know that feeling, about six
or eight hours after finding a bottle
of gin from a dinner holiday party
ages ago, which, after the first cup
lets its pine tree notes become less
astringent and the reason for
foraging in the cupboards for any
substance that might help break
the depressing hyperfocus on endings
general and specific finally starts
slipping from the mind and you're like,
hell yeah, more of that, which is less
of something that is no more, until
the bottle too is no more, and you’ve
awoken famished because drinking and not
thinking about a particular person
was so distracting you hadn't eaten
and you know you don't have groceries
but you look in the fridge anyway
and right there in the sacred beam
of fridge light is a carefully wrapped
three day old beefy melt burrito
which, while at the moment in the cold
is hard as a rock, after a few spins
and some radiation on a paper plate
it is a bar of molten gold ready to cast
your tumultuous and gurgly stomach
with its delicious goo and about halfway
through inhaling the leftovers, the first
hot bit hits your gin-and-stomach-acid
cocktail, and you think, you know,
things could be worse, hell, much worse.
It builds up, warm from the seed burrito
and brings at least some sense of order,
of solace even through the nausea.
You know that feeling? It's odd, but
I'd still give every hung over revelation
for a redo, extra life–one more chance.
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