Three, Maybe Four Poem by Eric Cockrell

a shot of bourbon,
swirled and enjoyed
in the mouth,
chased with a beer,
and two ibuprofen...
the arthritis eases
until three, maybe four,
in the morning.

age silently aches,
as if the heart and the body
play together on an empty corner,
no change in the cup!
but the mind still remembers...
smells, feelings, bulletproof
and hungry, always hungry.

dawns alone on a mountaintop,
making love in the snow.
fires, good fires,
poets exchanging madness,
and later, children being born...
making things by hand,
the sweat and the promise.
and clouds that wept
over things we thought we knew.

now the clock on the wall
ticks with the footfalls of ghosts.
haunted, always haunted,
and dammit, still hungry!
till three, maybe four,
in the morning...