Woke up with a sweetheart
I couldn't do real justice.
"I smell it on you, baby,"
but methinks she meant the booze.
Seven Long Island Iced Teas
times six shots in a drink
equals I'll be slung low in the saddle
for forty-two dull hours.
At some point
a parade goes by
possibly in honor
of the best bender ever
or the biggest charlatan.
The snare drum tortures on
in cadence, my antics unappreciated.
I pray for merciful silence
until my guts scream that they're mummies.
Stumbling to the icebox
culls a phrase my father said:
"Love the sinner
hate the sin,"
or maybe that's the opposite.
A squad of flies
swirls about
practicing maneuvers
for when their chance will come
to feast and lay their eggs.
There's something rotten in this place
and I'm sure it's me.
I stay safe deep in sleep all day.
An ex calls by mistake.
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