Poem: Mim's Gin

like a flemish still life
    on the bed George made
    there stands a space of wood that the mattress has provided,
    a bottle of Mim’s Gin,
    bought from Wal-mart,
    placed there like a girl in a pirouette,
    softened by the color of Ticonderogas and sticky notes,
    torn up pieces of magazine, the dried cuticles of fingernails,
    a stained tumbler resting on the side;
    placed there to become there a flemish still life,
    a framed design of cheap, store-bought beauty,
    so it is not moved,
    when tidying up the room,
    but stays there on the edge of the bed,
    their contents — says the voice in your head —
    are to be emptied,
    to drain a hundred miles of frustrated tears
by Greig Roselli
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