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A poem I wrote about a close friend who began drinking a lot.

I don’t see you anymore.
Slim in the waste, wide at the hips.
A bottle you’ve become too friendly with.

A barcode, all the men scan.
Twelve dollars for each handle at your side.

A foul taste, nothing original.
A shot one too many times poured.

Recyclable plastic, ME five cents.
VT, CT, MA, NY, DE, HI, OR; YOU.

Slim in the waste, wide at the hips.
Cheap, bitter vodka.
That’s what I see.