Sweet Wine

Sweet Wine

By Caleb Edmondson

Send a prayer to the suburban 

train horn God. Ask why we search 

for trouble. The marigolds are shining 

just fine. My elbows so bloodied, so raw 

from those nights where I threw myself 

down the stairs, got up, then did it again. 

At the Rivers Casino, I’m dealt the worst hand

of my life. I empty a checking account, cry 

once, but never more. Joke’s on you. I’m in love 

with getting old, with the wrinkles forming 

around my cheeks, with this balding crown 

fit for a king. Someday I’ll be an uncle 

on Dad’s side of the family

Which means I’m destined for either greatness 

or suicide. Some might argue there’s a related 

loneliness baked into those bones. Enough for now. 

The morning will bring us hotcakes with blueberries 

and gin on the side. Let us rest. The snoring wristwatch 

hovers above our heads like the moon, or something more 

tangible, a three-fanged cobra waiting for his moment to strike.