Not a drop can pass my lips
No more diving into the glass
so I can see and touch the bottom
it’s smoothness it’s coldness on my fingertips
I collide with ice cubes on my ascent
Now I’ve climbed up and over the condensation on the rim
I can no longer taste the liquid inside.
I can no longer smell it, nor feel it in my blood
bubbling under the surface to make me a madman,
To make me a crier, a spitter of curses
to make me an abuser of fences, doors and windows.
I am no longer attuned to the sensory overload
of the vodka-and- lime
I am no more a drinker than a dying man in the desert.