A Year Older
yet none the
wiser; nothing left to do but stare at the grey sky,
wait for the
nightingale to land on the windowsill.
whiskey sours
early in the morning
with Hank moans
the blues.
drinks poured and
guzzled, nothing better than a quiet birthday.
a year closer to
the grave, having reached the
age bourbon took
Hank away.
running low on
lemon juice. it’s all right.
the whispering
ghosts remind me of different birthdays,
of different
times.
I pour me another
tall and strong one,
first drink of the
final year.
George Gad Economou