fried pickles

Through the muddle of too much vodka
I vaguely remember Natchez's gleaming lights
across the tumultuous Mississippi River,

the multicolored bulbs along the docks with
neon extolling catfish and fried pickles,
and I recall the sun biting into the horizon

and odd pairs of lights nipping at each other
hurriedly on the bridge that always scared
the crap out of me whenever I had to cross it.

I remember the dissonant hum of cicadas
clinging to cypress trees, and the sultry
heat following an abrupt rainstorm.

I also recall how you turned so sadly
and walked out of my life, taking with
you all I had known of recent life but alcohol.

At the time I couldn't retrieve what I had just
lost; I was too far gone into my alcoholic
addiction to realize how our lives, including

our children, had just changed so dramatically.
and now they could only be mine sporadically.
However, with the passage of all these years

I no longer wish for the life I once had, especially
that terrible compulsion toward self-destruction
which brought us to the divergence of our lives.

I no longer reside along the river, no longer
hear the tugboats as they ply the changing currents,
and strangely I no longer remember your face .

.