The Preciously Inherited Liquor
It is with us when we rouse from plenty’s cozy hours of rest; here as we welcome warm, cleansing waters upon half-slumbered faces, yawning into quiet morning kitchens to casually break hunger’s fast.
It is nestled neatly into leather interior, riding shotgun upon early commutes as we treat the noise of world news like nagging mothers-in-law.
It is the steps along the corporate ladder, the heavy oak office doors and dark red mahogany desks. It is the long-anticipated lunch with the exec’s: the lobster and wine on the company dime.
It is the drowsy drift home once again, the passing of the hungry and homes made of shopping carts–the litter, the drunken, the helpless, the drug-enslaved, the weeping, the gnashing.
It is perched alongside under chandelier light, under sirloins and whiskey’s done just right. It is reviewing the better parts of the day’s events with the wife.
It is the closing of the blinds, the excavation of another drink, a subtle boat
in which to serenly
It is unconsciousness upon the arm chair, the blanket of wall street and warm alcoholic exhalation.
It is sweet Liberty ever along for the ride, abused, ignored, and childishly taken for granted. It is she, the most delectable drink we could savor, the preciously inherited liquor of the American experience, tragically guzzled like one glass too many.
Cherish and remember her, you inheritors. Wrap her swimmingly in your arms for your children’s sake if not, at least, for God’s sake.