Warm Grain

The basement air is thick with the scent

of cardboard boxes and a leaking pipe.

I found a bottle, the glass all bent,

not quite trash, but over-ripe.

I remember the heat of that first stolen sip,

the malt liquor tasting like copper and bread.

It burned the edge of my bottom lip

and hummed like a wire inside of my head.

The label is mostly a sticky smear

where the glue turned to resin over the years.

I can still feel the weight of that teenage fear,

the way the world blurred behind my ears.

We sat on the floor of a garage in the rain

waiting for something to finally start.

Just a belly full of warm, cheap grain

and a sudden, thumping noise in the heart.