say hey
bard-tender,
won’t you please pour me
a straight up shot
(in the arm)
(in the dark)
of some rum
-bled phrase?
fuse me
(shaken, stirred)
a word or two
to spill, some cocktail
napkin poems to fill
the time.
lose me
to the page, the space
-bar rage of fingers flying
and syllables
sighing
in broken keys.
ruse me
into happy hour
highs
when letters clack
to sky, before it all blows
by and the hang
-over begins.
::
In April we poem. Today is day 21.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 