Some Poetry

Ode to a Cruel Muse

I can hear the fizzing, if I put my ear to the top,
The sweet promise of carbonation, even before I open it
With my fingers around the firm, pressurized can
(that should be bitingly cold to the touch, ideally)
I gently lift the tap and then yank
And a little bit of vapor escapes from the top
(if it’s really cold, which is perfect)
The fizzing gets a little louder
And takes on a hollow sort of ring
I lift the can to my lips,
The metal now supple under my fingers,
And tip that first sip on fiery brown syrup
Down my throat
And then my tongue explodes
Mingling fire and ice, and cactus prickles
And my eyes are wide, and now I can see
With needles of caffeine pricking their way
Along the road trip of my veins
Carbonated power from my heart to my fingertips
(Itching to create)
And the still cool weight in my hand diminishes
As the heady drink imparts my soul with an grin

© 2006 by Greer Nelson

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