a poem by Britt Luttrell
The Decision to Drive or Not
drought, and hatred's all that's left
on tap so that's what I'm drinking. I drink
and everything falls in my stomach, out of my
head to a place I can touch with my finger
that eats through its chain, drifted out
to clubs and bars and reappeared, briefly,
to those who drown in seconds.
Misery has wrapped me up
like hands around my drink, and though this glass
is empty I'm still chewing on its ice.
Brothers? I'm sick of all my brothers,
my slivered sisters, who pack in here
and sweat until they're small.
have any chance to matter, but here I am like something
you took pity on and fed. The neon lights
that make me think of quarantine are dimming,
but why? why is everyone
wrapped in plastic but me? Tonight,
are for finding home or trying, for sleeping
on the toe-prints you left
kissed above my dash.
for getting me