Tuesday, May 10, 2022

Hangover Man

Retinas peer out like a crack in my eyelids

following a long morning on a good time's third rail—

the hangover.

Lack of energy points out a cat resting on my toes.

Stomach feels like a tribe of gibbons screeching and scratching.

My relationship with myself lies at the bottom of the bucket

that sits six inches below where my throat and I

last had a serious falling out.

Once again, it's time for wild gestures and speeches.

I will never, I repeat, never behave like that again.

No more yards of beer hung like a participle above my head.

I have to realize it's not my job to entertain the audience.

I'll take it easy next time. Sip quietly in a corner.

Remember what I said and who I said it to.

What I did and who I did it to

won't even come into it.

Sadly, resolutions have such a short shelf life.

Soon enough, Friday night will emerge from the weeklong work grave

and drag this vagabond to the nearest den of bonhomie and drunken bravado.

For when healing's on tap, I just have to take my medicine.

Where else in life does the sickness come after the cure?