Printer Friendly

Down for the Count.

 On my last drunken downward slew I begged entrance to the loony
toons but the docs said no-- instead asked did I sweat
 ? I knew they were on to my imbibing but I wasn't on to admitting
even to myself
and blushed--i was once the professional--
Ah, the client who freaked me half-witted her split lips spitting hexes.
Red-Rorschached tee-shined johns straitjacketed her from knocking me
bonkers, the two male student workers, frightened stiffs, my upper lip a
St Vitus jig out of control. It was
bedlam--bottles & kids rolled to roaring sirens. Why you laughing at
me you fat bitch
? the missus bellowed & my Apprehension Form
shook. Other workers placed the rest as I rushed the son with pneumonia
to Sick Kids, then dove into a Heineken
Years hence, heard she too sobered up but the breathless boy fell
through the ice near his foster home, heart frozen. Did that shatter the
mother--into sobersides? My 3 year old could spell A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C--
insanity finally corked   broke the spell. 
COPYRIGHT 2009 The Antigonish Review
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2009 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Author:Fretwell, Katerina
Publication:Antigonish Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2009
Previous Article:Private Conversation.
Next Article:The Merry Times.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2022 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters |