It’s Not Whuskey
by Nicholas Reading
My friend John pronounces whiskey
whuskey. A pronunciation passed down
from strangers doubled as saints
with cue ball eyes, tortured to say
whuskey. John claims the curse.
He claims royalty and dastardly deeds.
He carries a pin with a purple ribbon
in his boot, point up. He uses language
that not many understand. He’s leapt
buildings, not far away from each other,
with a running start. He’s fallen and survived.
Somehow children take his lap
and everybody behind the liquor store
knows where he was born. He’s godfather
to the gas station attendant’s daughter.
It is rumored he has died before
And returned by popular request
Despite objections. He pockets complaints
like corks in his hands. Announces trouble
before clocks can catch up. Before sirens
arrive outside his front door in time
for him to disappear until morning. He returns
yielding secrets decoded under the bridge.
Among his offerings, he holds a Robin.
A few eggs are pulled from his shirt pocket.
Shipping included in all prices.
|Emily Kendal Frey|
|Maureen Alsop & Joshua Gottlieb-Miller|