Drunken Doors and Scandinavian Whores

 

By Annabelle Ginter

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The steps echo into the neighborhood

The sound never catching on the chewed

Up gum with bits of lunch left in it,

Spat on the ground, ready to expand

With the rain

The door to my home opens with a sickly

Groan from too much use, like a

Scandinavian hooker working her last hour

His body melts into the floor,

With the smell of liquor seeping into

The walls, the couch, the creaking whore

Door. They all gag as he breaths out

His fumes of spirits and desperation.

Cherry flavored vodka and a watermelon

Four Locos- no. Make that Four

Foul flavor-killing Four locos

Penetrate the air with their hooks

Into his jutted-out stomach, his

Swimming eyes, his useless hands

And control him like the wasted

Puppet he is.

My nose upturned, my breath shallow

I make my way through the house

As far as way from the intoxicated

Toxins as possible.

Welcome home.