Babysitting the Piano with a Mouthful of Gin

Jon Vreeland - Writer/Poet/Journalist/Human

I told my sister I would watch the girls so they could leave the temple, stagger the salted streets until they vomit while I played the piano all night with my glass rarely full, a fist full of gin after every song until the

bottle was hollowed like a gutted fish.

I pounded on the vulnerable keys of my grandmother’s gift she had left for me after her soul had had enough.

I played




The Damned.

Slurred the words of other dead punks while the girls played in the other room.



2 o’clock.

I pounded away.

The girls shopped and scribbled lipstick on their little faces, sang along to the songs they knew from




The smoke from a pack of cigarettes crawled through the air, out the front…

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