Along the way we stop for drinks. I choose
a Monster, wanting to avoid the fate
of Icarus, who had too many sweets, his
waxen wings dripping the waste of self, late

reminder of desire not withstood.
For you, a can of Coke. The real thing. Not
Diet. I smile at the irony, "Good.
I'm sick of--" Stop. It wouldn't be too wise,

invoking categories now. I'd blot
out the beauty of this moment and lose
my reason for being here, drinking lies

instead of sugar, so I won't berate
myself for failing to pass the test, should
it come, but sure this sipping is my lot.

Tags: poetry
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