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by Sharon Chmielarz
Not too much, is it, to ask from a week–
Tuesday. Night of the Iguana. Tequila.
I’d hate to drink to nothing at all.
Wednesday, The Northwest Passage to Friday,
I lift my glass to the empty chair beside me.
Not too much, is it? To ask from a week?
Thursday is totally Mutiny on the Bounty.
I mix a Titanic: drink three and you’re sunk.
I’d hate to drink nothing at all.
Chicago. Valentine’s Day. Al Capone. Still
bloody alone. Calls for a double shot.
Not too much to ask from a week. Is it
Saturday? Dinner at Eight. 1933. I’m late.
Sunday’s Love in the Afternoon, a boring fling.
I hate to drink to nothing. After all
Father Knows Best. Monday is a light white
wine, sipped for all the Miss Lonely Hearts.
Not too much to ask, is it, from a week
of drinking to nothing at all? That I’d hate.