Ghosts at My Table
I sift through the rants,
the ramblings
of wise drunks …
the great men,
long dead.
I raise a glass,
toast their ghosts.
why must all my heroes
be dead drunks?
I love them.
their words spill into me
like whiskey,
burning,
warm,
real.
I don’t connect
to the living …
not the way I do
to these men who
rotted decades ago,
their voices still bleeding
through the page.
they taught me how to think.
they taught me how to live.
they taught me
that being me
was okay.
and maybe that’s why
I keep drinking …
to stay close
to the only friends
I ever had.