Her vodka-laced pronouncements stung <br />my eyes with breath of Russian fire— <br />the words escaped, and, as they hung <br />aloft, ballooned and drifted higher. <br /> <br />I watched them hover overhead <br />like bubbles from a comic strip, <br />containing all the words she said, <br />each barb presented as a quip; <br /> <br />but comments with a crooked smile <br />ring true when mixed with alcohol. <br />A spirit (with a shot of bile) <br />is deadly when the glass is tall.<br /><br />David Nelson Bradsher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-call-9/
