The Footlight Players Prize
Dying for a Drink
I’m face down, on the ground in a puddle of booze
or blood or mud. Can’t tell. Can’t move.
They won’t believe I only had a couple of drinks.
Who are they? I came to in the flash of a fear-stricken
face, the brief shriek of metal on metal.
Where are they? The family in the other car
isn’t rescuing me. I hear screaming.
I hear sirens, distant like the pain. My heart pumps
out a good night’s drunk. What a waste.
If I murdered those people, can I drink in jail?
The medics will have good drugs.
I’m staying alive by passing out
before my life can flash before my eyes.
I wonder if I can suck another shot from the muck.