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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
 asylum.
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. 
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Author:Fretwell, Katerina
Publication:Antigonish Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2009
Words:208
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