Whisky

A quick counter-clockwise flick
On the cap of the bottle of Maker’s;

Damn thing lands on the floor;

Suppose that’s bound to happen
When you’re already two drinks in,
Generous with the fingers…
Four?

But the afternoon has yet
To slink down into evening,
And I’ve not labored nearly enough yet
Over my incessant regrets;

I spin the cap back, and
Watch the ice bobbing on
An amber sea,
Two fingers deep;

The Titanic, and her charges,
Died in glorious, dark and brutal history,

While I’m a mere few inches drowned
In my own exaggerated misery.