They’re not alcoholics;
they’re in college.
All nights through the week
spent waiting for a drink
or six,
or even
spending their time
preparing for the weekend
with binges of seven or eight
or nine drinks in a row as fast as they can.
Homework is just an interruption.
The real love is a bottle of wine
seven miles south or more
waiting to be drunk by the able-bodied
future—or a bottle of whiskey
sitting on the bookshelf—
or a case of beer warming
in the trunk of a ’98 Civic.
They’ll drink to that.
And the living world
continues,
uninterrupted
around them, while they sit on a taped up stool in a stale pub,
then pound it and repeat.
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