A Sharp Stick

Someone ordered a beer
the other night
and I held the glass to my nose
and sniffed.

There was a kind of a rush thing
which would happen to anyone
who got a chance to savor
something they'd been denied
for a very long time.

And there was this memory thing,
where I thought
in an instant
about all the wonderful times
and all the hell
such things as beer
brought me.

And then there was a feeling,
deep within my chest and belly
where the knots get made,
that roared and bellowed
as if someone had jabbed
a caged lion
with a sharp stick.

That's the feeling
I remember
the night I got home from jail,
still drunk,
standing in the kitchen
chugging a tall rum and coke,
trying desperately
to make the reality beating its way
out of my eggshell skull
go away just one last time,
and failing.

I set the beer back down,
letting the smell and memories
fade into the background,
and went back
to my cup of coffee,

perhaps none the wiser,
but no more stupid
either.