“Old Courage”
 
There was an old bravery
in my younger days,
when beer,
hidden in a paper coffee cup,
tasted like courage
instead of yellow flowers
commemorating the inevitability of death,
and I was content with my hangovers
being just another punchline
in a joke I thought would always be
funny, until I realized laughter dies
the same as the rest of us. 


“Blood Memory”
 
I’ve always had this strange vision
of sitting at my kitchen table
at eight or nine AM
drinking rye on the rocks,
and I think this is blood memory
from a grandfather who drank
himself to death
before I was even born.
 
I guess some ghosts
don’t need rattling chains
or footless footsteps in an attic
to prove they exist.