C. E. Chaffin
edited The Melic Review for eight years prior to its hiatus. Widely published, he has written literary criticism, fiction, personal essays, and gobs of poetry.
Dr. Chaffin has been included in various anthologies such as Comrades and Voices from the Couch. His journal credits include The Adirondack Review, The Alaska Quarterly, The Cortland Review, Pif, and The Pedestal.
Selected online publication links can be found at his website.
—Back to Bumbershoot Contents—
I drink too much. It’s sad. It’s so plebeian.
Whiskey straight and ice, though sometimes wine.
I drink until my faults—well, I don’t see ’em.
I think that’s why most drink. “It is divine
To forgive,” so the caveat goes.
But caveats don’t comfort—they’re an abstraction.
They will not numb my head down to my toes.
I want to lose, not gain any more traction!
The rabble-rousing voices in my head
Rarely shut off when I am being still.
A little booze, the radio goes dead;
A little booze, I step off the treadmill.
Although my doctor says my habit’s risky
Considering all the medicines I take,
There are worse ways to cope than lots of whiskey—
And I mean lots. I’ve quite a thirst to slake!
Oh happy alcoholic! Or so I think.
My mind’s at ease, I’m never in denial
Until the morning and the morning’s trial
When weaving towards the bath I swear off drink.