No ratings.
Free-verse poem about the final minute of a young man who gambles with substance abuse |
Alone, he stands at the end of his unmade bed, the plastic nozzle of a small blue can clamped firm between his teeth. (The bedside clock’s relentless pace is measuring his time in space; one nine one four, the scarlet glare of digits counting out his share.) His moment’s here - chin up, eyes closed, to search for the next ecstatic high. A muffled tune buzzes from the pocket of his jeans; a friend, perhaps, begging him not to be late. Time moves on; 19:15. Muscles tensed, eyes clenched, one decisive push against his teeth, unleashes that final frigid rush, oh god! the instantaneous, wide-eyed gasp releases … |