by James Croal Jackson
I walk this familiar street
of spring. Cherry blossoms,
sunshine, the desire
to drink. Yesterday
I snuck into a field
with a flask to avoid
the knife room I
tell myself to stay
out of. My longing a black
rolled-up rug. I tell myself
Stay wound, trying how
I can before I let again
the drunk in me to walk
through the door,
spill me out in scuff
marks and mudprints
just after the rain.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing