Big Baby

At this very moment,

in a chilly apartment some-

where near Como Ave SE,

a very old boy

stands in the kitchen,

in dirty socks and a pair of black basketball shorts,

on a cold kitchen floor,

pouring half beers from red Solo cups

into a Miller Lite pitcher.

He doesn’t feel sick

yet,

but he’s getting there.

The secret is to refuel

before the symptoms present.

He fashions a full pitcher

from last night’s flat beer and spit,

puts it in the fridge to chill,

digs out the cold bottle of Old Milwaukee

stashed under a half bag of apples

in the crisper drawer,

turns on the TV in the living room

quietly.

(There are people still sleeping.

This is not his home

but he tries to live here.)

He takes a fat chug of medicine,

a big baby with a bottle

who started to die

the day he was born.

 

 

 

-Copyright Timothy Downs

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