Empty/Saturday
Spirals of blinking pointillism,
finally crying groundwards,
and resolving into planes,
do not defray the sadness
of this empty Saturday night.
Empty that is except for the whisky
which forces a grimace
that matches the mood
(later causing the hungry
scramble through the fridge)
and in any case, as if knowing
emptiness is the theme, tonight,
runs out too soon.
And so I am left wondering—
Where do these characters,
in these novels I keep reading,
get all their whisky? The point of it
seems to be they are losers, and yet,
they can even stock their cupboards
better than me.
I suppose I better
go to the store.