Last Call Poem by David Nelson Bradsher

Her vodka-laced pronouncements stung
my eyes with breath of Russian fire—
the words escaped, and, as they hung
aloft, ballooned and drifted higher.

I watched them hover overhead
like bubbles from a comic strip,
containing all the words she said,
each barb presented as a quip;

but comments with a crooked smile
ring true when mixed with alcohol.
A spirit (with a shot of bile)
is deadly when the glass is tall.