After the Shift
The glass torpedoes of straight whiskey sink
into the golden oceans in the pint.
They stand six abreast for the soldiers to drink
who for eight hours have clawed through the night.
Now the mouths man the stations of bar wood
ready to fire fluid into the blood,
ready to crash glass bottoms on the bar.
With 80 proof they heal the wounds of war.
My Cousin Jenny