the glass of amber whiskey
reflects
the flickering candle
with the promise
of dulling the ache
of filling the emptiness
of quieting the doubts

he stares out the window
at the traffic on the road
bitter
at his lack of destination
remorseful
in his inaction
alone

the clothes
tumble in the washing machine
the horns blare outside
the one cube of ice
melts
as water lazily runs down the glass

he knows he shouldn’t
but he drains the glass
then pours another
one too many
on top
of one too many
on top of too many to count