When You Are

When you are a drunk man all the long unused muscles in your brain travel down into your lower back and arms. You feel you can carry a small dense world, a world with the specific gravity of a bucket of kidney stones at the bottom of a barrel of wine. Drunks never have time to practice or exercise their feet, they stand like beach-wet oak trees bulging in imaginary oak tree trunks, impervious to age or ability they carry a helpless Zeus as if they had always been his father, then later, topple in and out of a life raft painstakingly explaining to a gaggle of lesser gods how your biceps once were as big and as tight as Herculeses’ bursting bladder.