Deah Caldwell Poetry

I’m drowning to the morning sun
a wayward girl on an endless run
of gin and tonics dressed up with a lime.

I hit the ceiling and clawed back up.
Then, I drank away all my luck
in a prison cell of never-ending time.

You were a scorecard in a losing game;
mediocrity in a hall of fame,
racketeering with your Jesus helmet on.

There was nothing that I wouldn’t do
to burn this down and forget about you.
So, I swished my teeth with whiskey at the dawn.

Prohibition was for the sinless man,
the virtuous, and the Christian.
I kept my moonshine under the kitchen rug.

These busted seams and worn-out boots
prove there just are no substitutes
when loneliness and you are my favorite drug.

You’re as smooth as Polish Belvedere
that’s aged for a good, solid twenty years,
sitting on shelf since 1993.

But, this un-threaded cable and broken chord
might be a sign from the good Lord.
You were just all kinds of wrong for me.

My ex was a ventriloquist,
whose actions were hit and miss.
Steam spent more time rolling off his tongue.

No. Bellows didn’t power his action.
Instead, he spoke in a twisted lexicon,
and just like Spring, I took my leave and sprung.

I’m swimming in sobriety.
It seems I finally found some piety
to wrap my five skinny fingers ’round.

I hope that you can do the same
and make the fold in this losing game.
‘Cause darlin’, victory ain’t nowhere to be found.