Poem By Robert Rorabeck

I get drunk. I tear down
Grab my father’s gun
And shoot up and down
The night until the
Coyote howls. I kill
10 Indians.
I forget to say my
Prayers. I kneel down
At the foot of the
Bed and vomit.
Then I passed out on
Her birthday last year
And wrote her love
Letters while I slept
I can’t remember.

Comments about Whiskey

As usual, your poems grab my attention. I know it's your style, but this old English teacher still needs some punctuation! A nice graphic picture of the old drunken male story in another era.
well paced and chocked-full of visceral sustenance. it's gonna take me awhile but now I'm going to have to read many more of your works. strong work, Robert. -Tailor

Rating Card

4,8 out of 5
2 total ratings

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