the house at the end of the cul-de-sac
a shed full of bottles,
some empty, some sparing
but a drop of umber syrup for a
pots and pans had long stacked up
in a rusted sink, stained and riddled with scum.
who lived here?
the owner was strange. he spoke
a foreign tongue. one that yelled and argued.
his body had endured years of wear and tear.
it contained no more than brittle bones
and waxy flesh and toxic blood.
it was a monster of no usual kind,
one armed with drinks instead of swords.
but inside that monster
was a man.
a father, a brother, an uncle.
a man who used to straighten his tie and
kiss his wife goodbye.
now he only had his bottles to rely on.
a drink to get the day going
after a night of drinking.
and the days always went
away and away and away.
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