Whiskey’s wounds,
infected,
leave an evil smell
on the lips of the sailor,
who drowns in his own
double-malted hell.
Push-and-pull
that old
cork.
If there is help,
the sailor, alone,
won’t have the strength
to push it back out.
Damned to the amber waves,
bound to the Whiskey smell,
trapped inside the bottle,
the captain,
white-knuckled,
clutches the rail.
The mainsail is blown
and he is barely holding fast
against the same stinking breath
that stained his lips
in the past.
The voyage was grand,
he could see the shore
and feel the sand,
but the fumes
filled the bottle
and would soon
kill the man.
“Anchors aweigh!”
The captain roared.
The first mate replied,
“Why bother?
We’ve never moved
at all.”
©️ 2020.
The author is dry as a bone.