Old Bottle, Green,

sticks out of the earth.

I wonder, while I’m sitting,

when was it last drunk?

When was the last time

fingers gripped it about

the collar, placed its mouth

to lips, drank from its cool

insides? As Summer breaks

her promises to my neck.

Tattered label worn rakishly,

stabbed to earth. Some

remains at bottom. I bet it’s

old whiskey. I wonder

why he or she would leave

even that little bit there,

not drink it to the very

last drop. Drunk enough like a

calm breeze, a promise made to

the back of my neck by a girl

named Summer—but broken,

as often is the case—broken,

and sticking out of the earth.


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