Someone would show with a jar or two,
a back hollow boy rubbing his whiskers
or a town fool flashing his bonafides,
and a good fifth of the crowd would whisper
to any old so-and-so, I don’t mess with the stuff,
leaving out the one word hanging in smoke
like curfew or Jesus or an old flame’s breath,
the charred lesson lying in wait for the few
who didn’t take to drink or didn’t know
the heart from hunger or spirits from haunts,
the slurred word, nomore, held tight in the throat
until the urge to swallow broke the lips.