Every eight o’ clock
the glasses fill the well.
Wide ones with gaping big mouths,
delicate ones laced with sugar crusts,
thick-glassed, obstinate pilsners.
They are filled to deliver
their liquid warmth
for kisses in exchange.
They fetch vodka
a face to play with.
They are emptied, discarded,
returned to me
wearing red lipstick.
I baptize them clean
with three dips.
The big mouths hang
to dry, where they drool
and cry over the counter.
The others, I freeze,
and their tears form
frozen rivers down
their glass sides.
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