A Blurb In the Obituaries, a Tab That He Can't Pay

It was middle-aged catharsis night
next door on my oak altar.
Arms like swinging hams
chased my cocktail up the straw.
I fled to my apartment
for an old and botched routine:
a few more gin and tonics
for what could've, should've been.

Left like toxic garnish
from three time zones away
was a message the next morning
that would break the donkey's back.
It was deleted from a distance.
It's a song that doesn't change.
Whoever lands in those hands
should increase their life insurance.

Tonight on my stroll home
from a married inspiration
with three beers swimming inside me
and alarm clocks on my mind
I saw something that stirred me
from my fear of spraying skunks.
The phone lines were intact
though the dent was undeniable.
I wondered if it was the pole
that made the barfly cry
when after shots of Irish whiskey
he told me of his wife
who had wrapped her car around it
twenty years ago at least.

I walked him home that night
since he spoke of sad solutions.
When I see him now I wonder
if he fears I'll pull the favor
but he doesn't know I've gained my share
in knowledge from his plight.
Some folks have worse reminders
than a voicemail in the morning.
(I swore I saw some hatchet marks
below the impact splinters.)

The Romans paid poor Judas
thirty pieces of pure silver
for his infamous betrayal
that wrapped around his neck.
My last kiss was different
as was the gift they gave me
though the curse of observation
keeps the pensive wide awake.

It's time to ride the calm
and forget there was a storm.