liquified

empty bottles line the counter top as evidence of the night before,
hair in disarray, a mouth full of cotton, and a head full of soup make up my parts,
parts that try desperately to keep my bones moving forward,
upright motion shakes the soup and the cotton trys to wet itself,
this is a sign of the times, of my age, of my tolerance to the sweet grapes
that are now liquifying all these moving parts.