Three Sheets to the Wind
Slurring and stuttering
we do the slow waltz home
after spending the evening crucifying sobriety;
a blasphemous remnant of a long night
dancing with the demon drink.
4am taxi cab queue banter:
“Shooooo…how long ye bin waitin’ for thish black hack?”
“Eh, boot an ‘our pal -hic- Sh-sh-shomthin’ like ‘at.”
One familiar conversation
repeated ad nausea [sic]
on the route home.
A mountain of chips.
Complete with a cliff face of sea salt
and a condiment of your choice
(tomato sauce, if you ask me).
Women in heels forgot their feet
and left them on a dozen dance floors.
Crying in doorways with stiletto growing pains,
in the arms of a swaying boyfriend
who’s whispering sweet somethings
into a headful of drunken nothings
begging to go home.
We stagger onward
as if on shaking Earth,
wooden trident in one hand
polystyrene box in the other,
in the rain,
putting Poseidon to rights.