...so I marked my page with the ancient green wristband
tossed Mr. Thurber onto my nightstand with a thud
and pulled the blanket over my head
to enjoy the sweet stench of Failure in the form of liquor
and the morning's baked beans.
Anyone who claims not to secretly savor the aroma
of his own intestines' noxious fumes is a damn liar.
My mom had called on the previous night
ten-thirty on a rip-roarin' Saturday with me good-n-drunk
to suggest that I invest in a new mattress soon--
something about dust mites and a potentially bad back.
I distinctly remember her mentioning the option
of paying on The Installment Plan, but don't recall
how I blew it off. I'm sure it was far less witty
than it could have been without the Canadian Club
running its familiar comforting course through my veins.
Alas, one can't win them all
or one would have little
to write about afterwards
and you, voyeur, would have to find a real hobby...
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