Rollo Nye

Drunkagainland 


This is the kind of cold, wet, gray day that I used to pretend I was in England
and take out the Single Malt Scotch and have a long drink over some ice.
I used to love to hear the ice crack - and smell the aroma of the whisky as it would rise up to my nostrils and when it was finished,  I would invariably think it not so bad to pour another
because where can you go in a dark drizzle other than England or someplace like it
and perhaps I would find my father somewhere along the way
though he was always drinking vodka and going to Russia or someplace like that
and co-traveling with my father albeit simultaneously to different places
was a romantic notion, so like I do with all romantic things, I fell in love with it,
after all we were fellow travelers and then we would have another and then some
until one day I realized that we had only gone to Drunkagainland,
which in reality, is a place I only hoped to leave as soon as I would arrive.
Sometimes it takes me a long time to realize things like this.
Fifty years to get from easy to peasy.



No comments:

Post a Comment


The views and opinions expressed throughout belong to the individual artists and may or may not coincide with those of the other artists (or editors) represented within the magazine. Hobo Camp Review supports a free-for-all atmosphere of artistic expression, so enjoy the poetry, fiction, opinions, and artwork within, read with an open mind, and comment wisely. Thanks for stopping by the Camp!