Thursday, January 27, 2011
24 minus 8
everything seemed fine,
car was serviced,
eye doctor gave me the thumbs up,
picked up a few things at the grocery,
including the right ingredients for chicken pizza,
traffic wasn't bad,
Oscar Peterson on the car stereo,
one more stop,
the finest of retailers,
the retailer of brewers,
"24 Sleeman Original Draught please."
The trunk was loaded and shut,
I headed home.
When things go smoothly,
I find myself waiting for things to go wrong,
pulling out the groceries,
I tugged a little too hard on the box of beer,
it tore and fell over the edge onto the pavement,
an explosion of froth and glass,
a puddle of gold,
I felt the pity filled eyes of the passers-bys,
"Oh look at that poor drunken man...he broke all his booze,"
they would mutter,
"Hey I'm sober! I dropped the case!
Why don't you mind your own business!" I would yell.
With bloodied hands I gathered up the glass,
bagged the unshattered remaining,
and went in,
I put the remaining in the fridge,
soon they were chilled,
I popped the cap,
with bandaged fingers I threw it back.
It was good.
It was cold.
It was what I thought it would be.
24 minus 8 leaves 16,
no hole is as big as it seems.