On AC with the windows open and other shameful wastes.

My stomach was digesting itself again
until beer put that one fire out.
My ego caught a mean pistol-whipping
that wasn't half of what it deserved.
My heart and my mind stopped talking
a long time ago, and both have paid the price.

I told myself that Second Best ain't so bad
with a beer in hand as the sun sets, at least not for a guy
who can admit that he wouldn't mind dying
if the right song was playing.

Though this isn't my only recent drunken fumbling.
Last week a jukebox and I managed to rip
a dollar bill in half at that bar where I stole
a bottle of vodka on a birthday dare.
George still winked at me despite my
defiling of his face. I taped him back together
and pawned him off like one of those
good habits I used to have.

So you, you:
you refuse to bleed out in the sand
so we join the Canadian Club instead
swearing to a life of high-proof spiced piracy.
They're right in what they say
about all being fair in both;
you're better at one, I at the other.

This is just another of the many times
when nothing gold could stay, babe.
It's Sunny, and we can't Share.

But what to do with the kids?
You take poetry, I'll stick to prose
and we'll both stay away from dialogue
since it only shows the weakness we have
aside from each other.