..
against this midnight-silent
sky, he is all rum
-bled song
(how many bottles of beer
on the wall? We’ve lost count.)
He’s cashed in and crashed
on our couches and trashed
his last joint and pointed
at that tattle-tale moon
and sworn her to shut the
fark up while swooning
over her glow
-up goodness, gracious
heart.
Skunks don’t get drunk
but he’s no monk and so
yes, please, he’ll have another
round, drown his sorrows
and his teeth, roll up his
sleeves and beat you
at pool
or bull
or jukebox jangle.
Karaoke is next, and you
don’t wanna know what he
can’t sing. Shots for the poor
listeners in the front. Doubles
for that lady in the back, who’s
looking better by the hour
-glass.
He’s been
{smashed}
on the rocks and straight up
against the clock and totally wasted
by a thousand stars.
These moments aren’t ours,
he cries into his gin
-gered chin, and hey, bartender
where ya been?
Set ’em up, Joe, and then set
me up, too. I’m shaken,
and stirred and good heavens,
this world has spun me right
’round on significant strings
and in the end, it beat
me.
But moon
-shine, and wine? Martini-star
mind? Here’s my last call:
…………………You complete me.
…
In April, we poem.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
great post 😁