Lost at Sea

You skimmed through the bars like a pebble,
each splash a cheer
until the water got heavy
and the money ran out.
So you drove home
staying between the lines
until you parked. You swayed
to the door with it’s tricky lock.
Once inside you feel like a sack
of wet rocks on the beer-stained couch
where you left your bottle of just-enough
Jagermeister Spice. You gulp twice
and swear before skimming through
the same infomercials, dulling
whatever’s left of the blues
you don’t see, keeping them
blurred. Your head swirls. You smile
and become a single poinsettia in a Monet
and sing like a sparrow perched on a lion’s tongue.
You close your eyes and start to feel
acid in your gut climb to the back of your throat
like warm chunks of sour tapioca.
You fight the retch,
stumbling up, shoulders back, head level,
breathing deep and slow, with patience.
But purpose is lost
in a sea you can’t see. Up ahead
there’s a bright yellow flower. It hurts
to look at, so you squint and wonder why
you know tomorrow it will be gone.