Scuttleship

"Shut up," she said in a caustic Verizon font. "The truth
doesn't hurt."

"It sure don't set you free, either,"
I responded, comma for good measure.
From the relative safety of my couch
I chewed gum like a cow
loudly like my father
in between the swigs.

But no amount of sips or shots could do it.
General Pompadour tried and failed to reach the drunk
to end all drunks, the face to end all names.
Oh yeah, motherlover. What's that they say
about the definition of insanity? Repeating
the same actions and expecting different outcomes?

It ended in belligerent fried chicken
and a confiscated pistol locked up in my safe
for the duration of the dance-off.
Sometimes we mere mortals
should feel lucky that the night ended at all.

And in all due fairness
who doesn't love
the sound
of their own voice?