adventures in dysthymia

Friday, February 16, 2007


My glass is empty
and the bottle that filled it
and for all I know the whole
damned distillery may have
shut down, all those oak barrels
now tacky furniture
in someone’s paneled den.
Were I a drinker,
one of those barfly poets,
I’d not be sitting here,
holding the empty past.
I’d be filling up,
anywhere I could, trying
to replace what runs out through
the cracks. But empty is empty
and I can live with that.
Yeah, I can live with that.

Stephen Brooke ©2007

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