whiskey (a poem)

whiskey

whose whiskey is that? 

i think i know.
its owner is quite angry though.

he was cross 

like a dark potato.
i watch him pace. 

i cry hello.

he gives his whiskey 

a shake, and screams 

i’ve made a bad mistake.

the only other sound 

is the break,
of distant waves 

and birds awake.

the whiskey is bitter, 

addictive and deep,
but he has promises to keep,

tormented with nightmares 

he barely sleeps.
revenge is a promise 

a man should keep.

he rises 

from his cursed bed,
with thoughts of violence 

in his head,

a flash of rage 

and he sees red.
without a pause 

i turned and fled.

shower thoughts

why do we abbreviate 

“number” as “no.” 

knowing too well that

there is no “o” 

in “number”.