The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Brewed

I tip the phallic glass
and imbibe the piss-like brew,
they call beer.

Quaffed bubbles rise 
like the smoke 
from my cigarette.

Swimming in the fountain of
inebriation, I dance
a few steps to boot.

And spit the tar-tinted
swill from my lips,
to cleanse my palette.

I inhale another breath
of fresh air from
my hot porch rocker.

And grabbing for another 
brewsky, I find only 
empties and a dead butt.
■





©2009 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.