once we were poor but love-drunk ginger ale was our wine you would swirl it slowly let it catch the light and say ah canned three months ago truly a fine vintage on a signal we would sip together and remark that the ginger so tickled our brains it must be from Provence or Andalusia and then we would laugh like fools until the neighbors banged on the wall
married now ten years we can easily afford any drink we please our nights are red wine white wine and silence when you go to bed I pour myself a ginger ale on the rocks toast the insects circling the porch lamp and set it down untouched waiting for the ice to melt and ruin it waiting for every last bubble to burst
ABOUT:
Thomas Keith recently returned to his hometown of Austin, TX after living for some years in Chicago. He is a classicist by training and has a keen interest in literary translation and comparative poetics. His original work and translations have appeared in multiple literary journals. Follow for more of his work and updates @trkeithpoetry on Instagram.
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