just a poem

on the window sill sits a bottle
child-prof the lock pops he
fishes out a small pill maybe one maybe two
three four
cork pops bottle of chianti
scrached glass filled to wash down
the little circles
rocking back forth back forth sips again and again
body calms as veins fill
watched from so close but seems
far
she hopes she wonders confused
glances not to catch atention
walk slowly past him
step faster now
grab