The can of Coors has been in our refrigerator pushing four years.
I only see it when I crouch down to chase escaping lemons.

Tom didn't drink that Coors, not in the months
that he fell asleep in front of the TV on our white couch,
me watching him from the corner of my eye,
tracking small movements in my peripheral vision,
listening to his muscular smoker's snore.

It must taste like shit by now, gone bad, flat,
metallic from the aluminum can,
but at least it's cold.
I thought about drinking that beer last night.

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