"The Ex-Wife," "The Real Barfly," and "The Price"

The Ex-Wife

When he was released
from maximum security
prison in Scotland for bad
health at 61 after only a
year of a 6 year drug
sentence she flew him
home first class to Sydney.
Paying for a room and
several stays at the best
rehab, that only made his
appetite stronger. A year
later she couldn't take it
anymore, cutting ties with
him a second time. The
funeral happened shortly
after. She wept by the coffin
the whole time. Whispering
sorry again and again, until
no one but her was left to
hear it.

The Real Barfly                                                                   

He loved the film
about the writer that
didn't write anymore,
just drank to excess
every day. He had
given up writing for
the bottle as well.
Every morning at
work he'd smell
like peppermint
mouthwash and
whiskey. After
a while people
started to notice
and he turned to
gin instead. He
got thinner and
thinner and more
unreliable at work.
Was always irritated
and carried a flask
in his back pocket
at all times to keep
him going. A few
months before he
died, I asked him
why he didn't just
quit? "I can't quit.
I am a writer!" he
said. "O.K," I said,
remembering how
bad his poems were.
Writing this one
shortly after, his best
and final words.

The Price

I threw out
the old
portable
fan today.
I have had
it for over
20 years.
Originally
bought it
for $15:
a big purchase
then.
Living in a
room in the
red-light
district with
milk crates
for furniture,
a pillow on
the floor
for a bed.
A room not
much bigger
than a prison
cell: though
the furthest
I could get
from one at
the time.
The fan never
worked so
well; especially
on the hottest
days, but I
knew the
alternative,
and would prefer
the heat. Doing
its best to
keep me cool
all those years.
And sometimes
words. Sometimes
none. Yet always
the need, desire,
passion for
more than the
comfortable
tombstones those
around me
called lives.
Throwing the
fan away today
after 20 years.
Hoping it is all
that’s gone.