The Ghost of Cirrhosis

My father’s lost

from his corporeal form,

legs akimbo

down liquor store aisles,

with a love in his liver

for bitter bourbon solace.

Fish-eyed and floundering,

Dad gave up the ghost of cirrhosis

for the madness of King George

without a crown.

Do the Existential Queen Village Crawl

I crawl into my head

for the long winter

of my discontent

yet dread the company

I keep there.

Venturing outside my house

past cat cafes & coffee shops,

fabric stores & hair salons,

vintage thrift & restaurant fads

on my Queen Village block.

I am alone.