During the night, I groped
for the glass
to quench
with wine
the thirst
the wine had roused, but knew
I'd knock it over, staining the antique table
and your precious rug. I wouldn't tip the crystalline glass
I'd picked up months ago.
When I turned on the lamp, I saw,
with a start, just what I could've swallowed,
a buoyant cockroach flat
on his back
in white. Chance had donated a dead wino
to a little med-school vat. Later, you wouldn't believe
he was ours, and the maid had flushed the proof.
Lured
by the rich bouquet, like the roach, I'd fallen
into a wineglass, too, I couldn't get out of, scaling,
then glissading
down the slopes, trapped
in a thankless job, trapped
in a loveless affair, trapped
in a life
I'd drunk so much
I drowned.
