Sunday Morning by Alec Solomita

Waking up parched and pounding
in a thicket of parking tickets,
overdue library books, scratched 
cds, I scan the waning dark 
to see where I’d touched down

and spy above my angled head
against the coming sky a skein
of wires where electricity chants
in sleepwalker whispers
about the long day trips ahead,

and try to figure how I’d
landed here, of all places. Gently,
I pull my hand out of the steering
wheel and straighten up on the
aromatic leather of the folding seat

and begin to remember the flood
of bourbon I nearly drowned in
the night before, and I recall 
wretched Dylan’s last boast, 
“I've had eighteen straight whiskies. 

I think that's the record.” The infant
with the lovely rumbling Welsh cadence
I worshiped, as a worshiping boy
will. The dark of morning scatters.
With a white leap, the bus beside comes alive.

Alec Solomita is a writer and artist working in the Boston area. His fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, and Southword Journal, among other publications. His poetry has appeared in Poetica, Litbreak, Driftwood Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Galway Review, Panoplyzine, The Lake, and elsewhere, including several anthologies. His photographs and drawings can be found in Convivium, Fatal Flaw, Young Ravens Review, and other publications. He took the cover photo and designed the cover of his poetry chapbook, “Do Not Forsake Me,” which was published in 2017.