347/365: Circle the Clock

There was always that moment,
weighted deeply troubled in my gut,
when I'd look down into the bottom of my cup,
and I'd say one more,
because if I went home,
it was just another long night.
Sometimes I'd down old bar coffee,
in between beers.
I'd call it
a breather.

It was boiled to dull brown,
and I'd have to skim
fatty clots of old cream
off the top,
but it kept my tongue nimble.
I could talk.
I could keep talking,
shooting the shit,
and circle the clock
until it was time
to chase my blackout home.
I worked it hard,
and I remembered nothing when I woke,
counting off one, two, three, and four
new bruises
from god knows where.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com