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The Empty Bottle

She never considered herself
As the type of drinker
To be classified as alcoholic.
–
The sherry in her morning coffee
Was just what she needed
For opening up her eyes.

–
At the 10 o’ clock tea break,
The glass of orange juice
Was her secret mimosa.
–
Or she’d never make it to noon
Where at lunch, unnoticed,
She’d have a few glasses of wine.
–
Her evenings started with brandy,
Except on those harder ones
Which required a good whisky.
–
Otherwise each dreary day
Would commence in raging anger,
Progressing into melancholy.
–
Between the career, marriage,
Family, and bottom of a bottle,
Was a space she’d fallen through.
–
Where every situation arising
Required a low level of inebriation
To suffice as coping skills.
–
Even the flask of aged rum
Kept hidden in her nightstand,
Was purely as a sleep aid.
–
Convincing herself completely
There’s no harm in being tipsy
And it wasn’t hurting anybody.
–
Since there was never any
Blackouts, regurgitation or injuries,
Major accidents, lewdness, or vulgarity.
–
And that it was the real secret
Behind her minty fresh breath,
And the sparkle in her eye.
–
Until she drowned alongside
Her sorrows and her demons
While filled with the spirits.
–
They could’ve hardly pryed
The empty bottle from her
Cold dead hands even then.

Ria 2016

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