Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder Poem by Mark Butkus

The ice is drinking my Absinthe
Ethereal worms dance in my glass
I have to improvise while wearing spats
My TV is wearing a Hawaiian shirt
(the shirt is red if you are into details)
and speaks to me only in Italian
I'm tempted to tell the talking glass that Absinthe is French
but I'd feel silly talking to a box with electrodes
- Do tubes and such in the back of that beast
even exist in the 21st century?

The ice is drinking my Absinthe
It has consumed three drinks already
There was one before lunch
One before sex with Teresa
and the one that is now
hiding under my chair

I don't see the point
in pouring another