The Scent of Drunk

You drink another
tequila shooter,
following it anywhere
it takes you

down dirty,
sitting outside
an open cafe, regrets
fading quietly
between
red clay bricks;
a bronze clock
stares still.

Lost minutes
taunt you
for who you are,
and breathless seconds
for who you never were.

Is it tomorrow again,
or yesterday
crawling back for more?

Sons and daughters
stroll past
your empty table,
in dreams
long ago
forgotten,
written on the backs
of nameless women.

You gulp another,
the scent of drunk
cutting your elbows,
then another;
not caring if it's your third
or your last,
almost hoping it's your last.

If only to feel nothing, again.