My neighbor has her groceries delivered, but is too drunk to put them inside.

Two paper bags, two bottles of champagne bubble in her entryway.

Four boxes of Franzia at the front door.

I haven’t seen Drunk Debbie sober in ten years.

It’s been five years since I saw her stand straight.

In blackouts, she takes my neighbors’

Amazon packages and tears down

UPS notifications taped to our doors.

One time in the parking lot, she stumbled,

crying. I helped her up. Cheap wine

floating from her pores.

She told me her wrists were weak.

That’s why she fell.

I remember, every winter before a forecasted freeze,

for years our outdoor spigots

would be covered in styrofoam caps to protect the pipes.

We always thought it was the property management,

but turns out, it was Drunk Debbie,

the spigot fairy.

When I first moved to Timber Ridge, Drunk Debbie

used to hang out on the front lawn bitching about the HOA.

But she wasn’t yet Drunk Debbie. She was Always-Inviting-

Me-To-Drink-Red-Wine-On-Her-Porch Debbie,

which I declined because I was

Drink-Solo-On-My-Own-Porch Valerie

until that one final drunk dial, one final

leaving the front door open all night

when woke I up and surrendered

myself to seltzer water.

It’s been at least five years since Debbie stopped taking care of our spigots.

I rarely have to avoid her when I see her outside,

wobbling around the mailboxes, while I shake my head, tsk, tsk,

what a shame. Like she isn’t who I was drinking

my way to becoming:

the well-intentioned woman alone

in an apartment with her champagne shades pulled down,

toasting to smallness

because it isn’t dark or pathetic or insane

if it pops fancy flowing over a flute.