AGAIN DRUNK

Poetry on the end of your tongue and the tip of my brain
I opened the door
To let the warmth out
You let yourself in
Bar stool toads hear the sound of their own peeping
Nothing else
Except the call of their mates
Ironically it’s the barflies they won’t take home to eat
Feet on the rail
Elbows on wood
Hands around the glass
Head down
As if you are praying like a Monk
Stuttering, slurring
In your temple of meditation now
Again drunk

RDS
THE SECOND