My neighborhood liquor store contains
an echo.  I lament the longing buzz 
of patrons with a need to absolve,
to reaffirm how 100 proof never wanes.

I hear sermons served from empty shelves
like drunk talk.  Gray metal pulpits once 
brimmed with brown and clear salvation 
in brazen 100 proof tchotchke decanters.

Fluorescence seems harsher this morning.
This catacomb hosts an unsolved cypher,
ambling bones not totaling a soul.
100 proof has no expiration date.

I pray with thirsty hands reassuring myself
only a wet kiss and oblivion are 100%.