Tonight's Poet Corner: My Bottle
My Bottle by Belinda Roddie They refilled cup after cup from the keg, while I, my ankles soaked in brine and my hair tingling from the salty wind kissing the shore, stuck with a bottle of ginger ale and propped my knee against a rock that was as purple as amethyst when passing cars' headlights grazed it just right. My friend of ten years hiked to my perch, the sand spinning in mini tornadoes against his shorts, and offered me a red plastic chalice of chilled inspiration, but I declined. So he sat down on the stone beside me and drank from both cups. "Some day," he said, "we'll either be too old for this shit, or we'll get caught keeping it up. My money, obviously, is on the latter." Yet for each Saturday of three booze-laden bro years, not a single red or blue glow had been cast upon the beach. "By the way," he added, "sorry about Teresa. I'd say, 'You deserve better,' but I don't think you'd belie