Every Broken Thing

Drunk on the Lawn
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

Drunk on the Lawn
           

“How the hell do you see through those?”
was my first thought - although you
became much clearer as your glass
emptied and found you looking
through glass into glass and out again,
like an aquarium filled with viscous

yellow fluid. We moved outside
into clean air, the stench of exhaled booze
stifling in the closed room and your lines
slurred into a literary pathos no liver
could ever endure. The hue of bourbon fades,
finally dwindles down and finds a match in

the pallor of your skin. You’ve somehow become
mentor to the guy who whispers, “This dude
writes like smooth milk from a mother’s teat.”
Nourishment but a fleeting thought, as he ponders
his line, impressed with allegory you find repulsive
and, right now, more than a little distractive.

                                                      for Alan Dugan