by Matthew Marcott

Black muck teeters to
Broken gravel. Streetlights
Lit to a hung jury. The
Drunkard’s Quarter:
Frenchman’s Lane. Dreams
A James-son straight. Boasts,
‘I chopped ye head off, mate.’
Tackle, he says, next-to-none.
I lay in my hostel bed—
Awake. Loathsome and
Hopeless, I think. The life
Of a drunkard—fruitless,
I think. The naked youth on
Adjacent bunk, his future
Bright and unhinged, well…

                […]

The Life of a Drunkard
Undetermined—truly—for
The Quarters’ muck slides never
The same, sometimes fails
To reach gravel.
‘Oh, what an unhinged future
Ahead,’ I convince myself. The
Limitlessness of youth; The
Reservoir of opportunity
Deep as reason. He
Learned hope beyond the
Quarter’s bounds. Threw it to
Gravel like an empty
Guinness. ‘I dwell not, mate.’ And I
Hate him for it. Nathless, I ask:
Is there a happier soul than he?