Alcohol Abuse
I’m sitting on white carpet
in one of those cookie cutter mansions
under the quiet witness of
formal, cathedral ceilings.
An uncomfortably intimate setting.
Suddenly, a pull-back car belonging to
the resident toddler is discovered
between the couch cushions,
removed and placed on the coffee table
directly in front of me.
I welcome the acceptable distraction,
and help myself to picking it up
for a better look, successfully
keeping me disengaged from further small talk.
Seizing a moment of self indulgence,
I pull back and it let go,
blissfully unaware of something called
centripetal force
as mayhem unfolds in motion
slow enough to see everything happening, and
fast enough to do absolutely nothing about it.
I silently watch in horror as the car careens across
the glass coffee table, narrowly missing
three loitering wine glasses
but takes out a fourth,
causing Dexter-worthy impact splatter of
2003 Truchard Estate Tempranillo.
The hostess springs into action
before the flood gates of my embarrassment
burst open, assuring me everything
will come out with Oxi Clean,
and all evidence is erased
from my open and shut case
of alcohol abuse.