 
 Bottle Clockby David Holloway
 

                    Bottle clock makes its rounds
                    half a fifth 'til morning.
                    Words glide across the room
                    looking for a place to light.
                    The sound of rain on
                    the steps answers me
                    and I keep talking.
                    
                    As the bottle empties it
                    sobers up and wanders around
                    the table in front of me.
                    A few of the words get tangled
                    in my throat.  I cough them discretely
                    into my hand and drop them under
                    the chair.
                    
                    This happens quite a bit actually,
                    and by the time the bottle is empty
                    I am surrounded by wrinkled black words
                    like balls of burnt wire all around me
                    on the floor.
                    
                    What to do with them? I am at a loss.
                    I look to my drinking partners-
                    a potted palm and a 60 watt yellow
                    bug light, but they are loathe to
                    suggest.
                    Then I spot the bottle clear
                    eyed and upright in the center
                    of the table.
                    Dead soldier my ass!
                    
                    I grab him in one hand and a
                    fistful of words in the other.
                    and begin jamming them down his neck.
                    a few of them stick at first, and
                    he complains that they are unpleasant,
                    but as he fills	up again
                    he becomes more drunken and
                    easy to control.
                    I keep scraping the words up with
                    the side of my hand and funneling
                    them into his mouth.
                    
                    Eventually the floor is clear and the
                    bottle sits hiccuping gently full of
                    a strange dark liquor.
                    
                    By now it is morning and
                    my father comes bursting in the
                    front door with the newspaper
                    shouting Now here's something
                    you don't see every day.
                    
                    I just hope he doesn't want a drink.
                    
                                 -end-
                    Copyright (c) 1993 David Holloway


