Drinks
By Craig Kirchner
I arch my back into the ell of the bar stool.
The world, this is my world again, a gross
viewing station, of the two-dimensional
Breaking News, brought to me every evening
with Jameson neat, sticks in my chest,
makes the pressure rise and the AFib flutter.
Tonight’s blood, Ukrainian children’s blood,
bombed in a school, bodies, large eyes,
hair mottled with blood, become furniture,
not moving, like the bottles framing them,
stared at by classmates, journalists, and now
Mayfield’s patrons - fortunately an ocean away.
Two drinks - it occurs to me this slaughter is
on the soul of the aggressor - a year later,
those who could have helped but didn’t.
Two years later the blood is on my hands
for not getting off this stool, out in the street,
to tell world leaders to make it stop.
The coverage flips to children in Gaza, Hamas
uses them as shields. They starve kids because
they are in Gaza - not as shields. The bartender
pours another, says the guy in the red hat is buying.
He must sense my disgust, says, It’ll all be good,
they’re gonna build a hotel and casino
Craig Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville, because that’s where his granddaughters are. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels and has been nominated three times for Pushcart. He was recently published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, The Wise Owl, Breathe, The Wilderness House and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop, these words help keep him straight.