Bourbon Steals a Soul

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Bourbon Steals a Soul
Last night, bourbon sent its signal
to a sentimental man
who gave in to the god himself,
evil fucker,
who promises so much but only steals—
steals your soul
and steals my soul, hardening it
to all loves but the sexy smile
at the top of that bottle.
Open it and the perfume wafts,
like a lady with too much
who needs some time to dissipate.
Bourbon is a thing I hate alright,
until that other me appears,
usually around five o-clock
and a desperate need shows up--
the need to feel like a king!
I think it’s in my blood now,
not just my head. The body craves
what it can get—that sugar,
that sweetness, that flavor.
The ice, the glass, the taste, the class.
Fooled me into thinking I’m a king.
I like being fooled that way.
But bourbon is a snake,
and I’m not good at wrestling with snakes.
No, my world settled into a peace
with snakes. “Drink me,” the bourbon said,
“And you can have that peace.”
But I think it meant death.
There must be peace in death.
At least, bourbon thinks so.
It seems to want to take me there sooner.
So maybe I will give it up
because I like living. The women
are better here and so is the work.
Besides, I don’t trust bourbon…
anymore.
Anthony Signorelli