by Avee Chaudhuri
my Stonehenge, my Syrian fig
dappled in shadow and light
four corners, meridians all
converging on the exact spot
of my humiliation with the rye
last Wednesday called for scotch
everyone said so, even the finch
on the long grass. the shed door bugled
refusing to admit me, knowing
I carried not scotch but rye
in a dramatic effort to forget
the world at a higher proof
You’ll have a scotch, I told myself,
and exalt friends you rarely call
****
Avee Chaudhuri drinks in a shed. Please wish his father a happy birthday.