The Time Everything Went Wrong Or At Least We Thought It Did

For one thing, this Canadian whiskey is
way too fucking sweet.
But for me, he was out of Bourbon
and time. And for another thing,
the expressions on the faces of
all the ancient Gods
that are packed away in boxes in the truck
seem sad and full of pity. Didn't they used to be
noble and unstoppable? Like immutable doves?
Like Godward mountains?
But then, to be fair,
the movers took the mountains last week,
"just the bare necessities" they said.
So I find myself with a coffeepot, an automobile muffler,
three pairs of woolen socks
and a gun
and Canadian whiskey,
in a box next to me, when I'm
sitting cross-legged on hardwood floor
with ten feet of free in each direction
before bright white walls.
The painters were here last week.
I asked for "Eggshell,"
"Eggshell !" I shouted, but
they just painted "void."