We were drinking ourselves
into the grave.
I escaped temporarily.
Greg didn't.
He was crossing a
busy street in Iowa City.
In his baggy, dirty jeans
was a bottle of vodka that
he had just lifted.
I'm guessing he was in
too big a hurry to
"get well" and knock
off the shakes.
A minivan ran him down.
Before the booze wrecked him,
he was a lawyer, and a pretty
damn good golfer.
But what I remember the
best were our days at Prairie
Meadows, playing the ponies.
We cashed a few winning
tickets together, and
tore up some losers too.
God bless you, little buddy.
You're on the homestretch now.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2025 22:55
- Comment from author about the poem: My latest book, Sleep Always Calls, is available on Amazon.com. Here's a link. https://www.amazon.com/Sleep-Always-Calls-Thomas-Case/dp/B0F7FS5DQB/ref=sr
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 31
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments3
Although this clearly details the effects and control drink has over people, it is loving and touching as it comes across as real and personal, nicely expressed and written
ty
You are very welcome
Love the homespun nature of this poem and its grittiness. Very nicely done Thomas
Much appreciated.
A powerful piece, brother. This one really hits home. A fine write.
Thank you, my friend.
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