Cletus And His Bottle

Dead drunk, his bottle

Tucked in his right armpit

Cletus rose turbulently, swaying

Dangling like a kite

Caught in the boughs of a tree;

Squinting in the even blaze, he

Let out a mighty belch. 

        Three wobbled steps; an abrupt stop!

        With forehead creased in a gaze

        He appraised the expanse ahead

        Recalling but one path

        By which he’d come half a day earlier.

        Now, everything was different.

        The bottle, drawn from its loft and

        Tipped for a swig, cleared the fog.

"He would not sow who observes the wind"

The journey home Cletus must make

Of the self-multiplying routes

Only one may be trusted.

With a silly smile

He tossed forward

But into the ditch he dropped

His bottled companion in tow

To wait in slumber for the rude tap

Of the sun’s sliver the next morn.