All we need is the bottle.

A Poem by Nicola Taylor

There are shotguns in the closet,
mashed up against the splintered hardwood floor
and the blue cabbaged carpet that I grew old on

And I know, the pain of the world is musing to some
and god wasted all the hells on people's machines
to match people's injustices that they can't execute themselves

And I know, all the music stringed to heart strings
can not purge the mud I used to eat next to
my half wolf dog who shared his kibble with me

Or reconnect me to the fount who left me
like a child locked in a closet, forgotten, for screaming
as if a message in an ocean, or for breaking his favorite wife

I guess the point is,
all you weary can come to purge and break wine with me
and I won't pretend you're something to be lost at sea.