Add a jigger of Jack,
swilled with egg-white,
tonic, and syrup
to a sugar-rimmed
martini glass and enjoy —

at least that’s what the Bar Bible
will spout if you have time for that shit.
Try decanting Old Crow into a Solo cup,
add Schweppes to dusty ice,

and enjoy while the sun, muffled through blinds,
decants into lampshade-beige
splashed against a popcorn ceiling.

I concoct three faces, their pink-green eyes
passing judgement at the conceit
reticulated across my underwear —
torn at the hip

from a mid-morning struggle
through front-yard rose bushes
as onlookers, gawk-jogging past,
strain resentment into pride.

Leave joggers to their tisks
and the neighbors to their tact,

still one face for the street,
macerated in shine,
fuse another for friends,
soured over time,

and mull the last for yourself,
making damn sure morning
measures sieve relief
from last-night pleasures.

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Scot P. Langland has lived all over Alabama. He currently lives and writes in Birmingham while pursuing an MA in creative writing at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. He writes about the people he has come to know and the environments they inhabit.