sip some of dad’s whiskey.
it’s been a hard day.
lot of this and that,
a lot of my imagination tip toeing where I don’t want it to go
but it goes there, regardless,
like some stubborn child you love unconditionally
but I sip it.
it’s strong goin’ down the first time.
and the second time.
and the third.
you think I’d know better by now.
he makes it from scratch
from georgia corn,
from a still,
buried beneath a lot of years
some of which i’m just starting to see.
we named it ol’ butch, because of a childhood nickname
but it’s a lot more than that.
spit it on fire and you become a performer
like the ones at the circus that make us ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’
because it’s strong.
that’s how you made it.
and you play with it.
adding fruit or a barrel’s age,
still, in its purest form,
you see it as a way to clear away some things,
and you share it all over.
as it is a staple in both my kitchens.
tastin’ sweet after a hard night’s service,
or rough when I need it to be rough
I guess that’s the thing about hooch
it is what you need it to be
just a stiff drink.