On the Ropes

If you're waiting
watching, writhing
from a distance
now's the time
to make your move
while there's still something left.

I'm very good at pouring gin
down my open throat
and making a name for myself
in a town too small to tolerate
like closed-mouth kissing
or a crooked half-Windsor.

I see you through my blindfold
with my shoulders to the wall.
The firing line of women
casually loading rifles
has you there among them
though your eyes don't look the same.

I wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.
The French call it
"the little death".
Tell me, are they wrong?

Currently reading:
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson.

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