The ice waters down my whiskey as I sit on the patio.
I enjoy the musical clinks they make as I swirl the liquid.
The trickle of cold-fire douses my throat.
Though the ice never lasts long.
The condensation on the glass becomes my sweat.
I get up, again, and refill the drink with ice.
I glance down at the sausages in my yellowing kitchen.
They thaw in the sink.
Fatty, pink, glistening meat.
That will be blackened in the pan that is no longer non-stick.
The heat ruins all the beauty and reduces it to a puddle of salt.
I’ll keep drinking my whiskey on the rocks.
Til the thawing is done.
