Swollen Hands

My right hand is in constant pain. I took my shoe off to crush a spider but my aim is off, I'm vodka in, sight out. I hesitated before I initiated the attack. The spider has every right to live, even if it's in my room. My shoe hit the wall just above the guy and I watched him gracefully escape via web to the floor where he'll probably sneak up an bite my ankle or crawl into my pants and bite my sack while I sleep, passed out, full of vodka.
Let me start over.
My right fucking hand is in constant pain. It's swollen. That's my pouring hand. The hand I use to grab at bottles of booze and pour for couples, travelers, the lonely, the alien, the strange and myself.
I'm losing grip, my wrist is in constant pain as well from turning those bottles into pouring positions and shaking martinis. I'm waiting for my wrist to break and my career as a poisoner to end.
Goddamnit. That spider just crawled into my shoe and my left foot just smashed my right foot in an effort to crush the damn thing. I will prepare to limp. Smoke from my cigarette just went into my eye and now I am a stooge. The tenth billion...self-crippled.
The swelling should go down if I could keep a glass of booze and ice in my hand long enough. I can't.
My shoulders ache as I pull off my shoe and see the flattened spider just above my big toe. I rub it away, recognize that I will have bite marks in my foot and prepare for an itch.
My motherfucking right hand is in pain. It hurts to make a fist. It is already a casualty after all the punching of walls and mirrors. But if I can't pour, I'm useless.
My left hand is the relief pitcher, the back-up quarterback, the VP when the president gets shot. It knows how to hold a glass, it knows how to pour a drink but realizes that a drink poured by a lefty is not the same as one poured by a righty.
I need to train it. I need to train my foot how to pour, just in case. I need to learn how to grip a bottle of whiskey in my mouth and pour the drink without being sloppy about it...if I am going to be this way.
This way.
I should think this hard about love. How to feel it. How to give it.
But my hands still work.
I can still pour.
Light a smoke.
Scrape away dead spiders.
And my mind still works.
Think about alarms.
Think about love.
Think about the worst.
Preparing for it
Is really all I think about.
Survival of the damned.
Survival of the broken.
Survival of the next sunrise.