Algonquin Afterthoughts

Or else our drunken tumble was

   too true for daylight’s pleasure,

too much in vino veritas

   troubled the gods of measure

who sent bright draughts of sunshine down

   and sobered up my treasure.

All night rapacity had come

   as naturally as breathing;

we nibbled on each other’s necks

   like greedy babies teething.

How soon an empty bottle makes

   one feel a blissful free thing.

“Aspirin, aspirin,” he implored;

   I fed him several pills,

and when he wondered where he was

   it gave me frightful chills,

but still I told him of the party’s

   unexpected thrills.

Words woke us up, reflection turned

   affection to regret:

“After she left me I tried not

   to do this, but I get

so lonely”...so I showed him out,

   warbling “I’m glad we met.”

But now I crave the swift return

   of scotch-transfigured nights,

like Chaplin, horrified by his

   rich friend in City Lights

who only recognizes him

   from liquor-gladdened heights,

sticking a tall glass in the man’s

   upstanding hand (the clink

or worse awaits poor tramps like us

   if scamps like you won’t think)

and meekly scolding, in a voice

   weak with nostalgia, “Drink.”