Lonnard Dean Watkins
One More Drink

One
not
enough —
ten the trick
to dull the nightmares;
one is never enough for that.
One sip progresses to one bottle, or many more;
greasy french fry prints on the glass
on the side table;
the hollow
taste of
sick
coats
the
tongue,
and stuck
between teeth
the burger and fries
leftover from the last supper —
I am my own Judas, betraying me to my weakness,
crucifying my inner soul
weighted down by the grease
of burgers
and cold
french
fries