French 75

Crush 200 million shells into a champagne flute.
Twist 200 million lemon rinds, using only French
carbon steel, rocking back & forth. Imagine
even bubbles bust a cap in the ceiling. Imagine
my brain stuck spinning like a pair of rims
at a traffic light. Effervescence mixed with cognac,
spinning serotonin. Of course you can lower me
to the floor with two hands gripping my waist. Say
Clicquot 10 times quick. Gaba receptors swinging
from the ledges of a mind, all shot down.
Home is circling through a sky of old habits.
Saying—I’m on my way when I haven’t even left.
All day long, I’m on a late-night walk, letting my legs
take me whichever way they want, witnessing the ones
who came before me resting on the wings of things.
On Jets, on JET, on the word Yahtzee, on moths,
moth balls, on lightning bugs, on strawberry
candies, front porches, plastic fold-out chairs, on
biscuits, my daddy’s bald head, broken bottles.
I’m afraid to end up at the edge of an empty glass.
Afraid of what lingers in a taste bud, in a neuron,
in my nerve cells.