today that first swallow of Corona
tastes like old Molson Golden
and shades of grandpa on the couch

one simple sense
links to some unused bundle of neurons
and triggers ghosts of loved ones gone


I wonder what will bring mum to me
when she is gone some day distant

friend pork chops and boiled potatoes;
spinach and beans; chili and cigarette smoke
stale and carried on a winter breeze
stealing in through an open door or window


one swallow of Corona and the dead and the not dead
come to haunt me in the open air
with pulling hands

not yet

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