All Out of Amrita

I use my thumb to remove a bug,
some small thing
with wings,
from my glass of white wine
before pouring the rest down
my throat.

“Naima” slides out of the speakers,
follows me
to the kitchen.

I drag the big jug,
no longer heavy,
from the fridge. The thick
limpid decanter falsely amplified
its remaining contents and
leaves me
disappointed
when my glass is only half full.

I toss my head back and finish it
in one messy swallow,
leaving globules in my beard.

The clean white page,
waits for me back at my seat.
At this point all I can do is
soil it.
The bug is dead.
Coltrane is dead.
I’m all out of amrita
and the night is still so young.

Uno, Dos.