(Old Collge Poetry -I really always got in such torrid affairs… and then wrote about it… )
Three minutes to eight,
flight arrived early.
Walk into airport bar
Among shirted men, with no ties,
and tousled hair
and a TV over head,
I see him,
leaning against the wooden bar
ordering another drink.
He sees me
he orders me a whiskey and coke
coke hidden aftertaste of whiskey.
I walk up to him,
Steadies himself on the bar
we hug, hug, hug.
As I am holding him
he finishes his drink over my shoulder.
We talk,
I am drinking as much as he.
We decide to take a cab
to my apartment, where he will be staying.
Holding on to each other,
we walk out.
Already, I feel like his lover again,
breast feeding fermented milk.
The waiter in the bar yells us back.
“Hey! You can’t leave.”
Just outside the glass door,
We ask each other if we paid the bill.
In hysterics we walk back in.
We couldn’t remember.
The waiter reminds us
We forgot his suitcase.
When we were teenagers,
When he bent over the toilet,
the gutter, behind a car, or just on the street.
I wondered if he threw up enough,
could he vomit alcoholism?
So I wouldn’t have to beg.
At home, I put him to bed.
The vapor from the alcohol,
sits in the humid room,
disregarding the air conditioner
Reminds me of the times
I would stand over his hospital bed,
passed out
his stomach pumped
sirens still ringing in my ears.
I filled with tranquilizers.
I leaned over and kiss his forehead,
and loudy say,
“I deserve a fucking medal for keeping you alive.”
Yan Sham-Shackleton Online 