Alan Catlin- Three Poems

The Flatline Cocktail

Glucose 5% and Vodka 50/50

"That was an experience

I'm in no hurry to relive.

Imagine lying in Intensive,

tubes and IV's everywhere,

drugged almost out of your

mind, virtually helpless

with nothing much to do but

watch the Vital Signs monitor

and listen to the neighboring

death rattles.  So when the

machine goes from stable to

flat line, I'm really shocked.

It was just like you see it

on all those bad TV movies

but, at least, I'm pretty

sure I'm alive.  Still,

the machine thinks I'm dead

but not to worry, someone

is monitoring these machines,

like all the time, right?

After a few minutes of this,

I'm getting a little desperate,

leaning on the button hard.

By the time the nurse finally

comes running, I'm sweating

bullets, 'What seems to be

the problem?' she says. Remember,

I can't talk, so I'm pushing my eyes

over indicating the machine

that insists I'm dead.

She's so cool, when she catches

on, after all, it's not her in

the bed is it? Says glib as hell,

'Well, we'll just have to look

into this won't we?'

I'm think, you bet your sweet ass,

you will, sweetheart.

Well, it turns out, the machine had

a simple malfunction, you know

like, shit happens.  You'd think

with all they're charging to keep

you alive, the least they could do

was give you a machine that works.

Well, I guess it could have been

worse, I could have been in the hospital

where they took the wrong guy

off life support."

The Kiss of Death Cocktail

A Pitcher of Budweiser and an ounce of Shalimar

Pressed up against

the outer wall of the bar,

skirt hiked up almost

to her waist, she is

shameless, French kissing

him breathless, all pretense

of a quiet after work

date for a drink as

forgotten as the discussion

of his wife who no longer

cares what he does;

she's more interested

              in her exercise class

than sex.  Or the daughter

he still loves but only

sees in between activities

and dates.  All is forgotten

as the half-filled

pitcher and beer glasses

on the bar, cigarettes

burned to the filter,

an uneaten double order

of extra hot as passion

chicken wings.  Each week,

after week as the semester

ends, we see them as

just another Kama Sutra

couple, she the black eyed

widow, kissing, probing

deeply with her tongue,

he the anointed, gradually

shedding outer layers,

first, the wedding ring,

then the suit jacket, tie

and pressed shirt, finally,

the bright luster of his eyes.

The Icy Hand of Death Cocktail

One third Green Chartreuse, One third Yellow

Chartreuse, One third Pernod

The Expense Account didn't

necessarily exclude strange

experiments with after dinner

drinks but I wondered

as I watched him slamming

pony glass after pony glass

of high octane liquid sugar death

how he was going to justify

a hotel expenses bill

larger than the National Debt

of a former world power.

What happened to their GNP

bled the country white attempting

to fill a bottomless void

like the one in his memory

of that night that ended with

a pony that kicked back and

the icy hand of death carried

him over onto his back

where he lay on the wash

and wear carpeting staring up

at the hovering indistinct faces,

with blank, unseeing eyes.