message in a bottle

In a fetid BarcaLounger, he stubbed out an unfiltered cig, and took a long pull  
from a short-necked bottle.
 
Each gulp warmed his windpipe,
as the amber-colored solvent
was taken up into his blood.
 
Worn toes of hand made, mud covered  
Lucchese boots peeked above the bottle.
Loyal foot-soldiers in his battle with life.
 
Hard questions, that had been
chewing at the walls of his gut,
began to liquify and boil-up in his mind.
 
His eyes closed and the bottle slipped  
from his nicotine-stained hands,
as his stubborn heart slowed.
 
Whatever whiskey wisdom he sought
spread out on the dusty Linoleum.
This would not be his last attempt
to find a message in the mash.