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Textbook Drunk

Why don’t we ever get drunk enough?
Always we fall short,
Or stumble a little
Across the line,
Lying in the afterglow,
Of a vanished high.

We never dream of anything new
Except to wonder where our next
Drink’s coming from,
Or our next fuck.

But where is the poetry left in
Never opening that wonderful
Book you once gifted me?
I never read it.
I was afraid
That when I finished it
I would have nothing left
Of you
But the dried ink where you
Once scribbled my name
On paper.

Closing time,
Is always here too early.
And you have no way to
Catch a ride home.

All your life
Brought down
To some spare change
In your pocket.
Jingling.

Syamantakshobhan Basu

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