Friday

...the real drunk guy comes out to hunt for rare strains of alcohol tonight.
"Also, prepare to die, Don Nacho. We'll see where we end up."
He rolls up his trousers and wipes his sleeve on the counter emphatically.

"Ready."

The bartender, confused (he's never really seen anyone drink before),
questions a dumb one: "What'll it be?"
The man answers. "Alcohol, please. On the double."

A few blind minutes future, slinging back a wet spaghetti basket
he splutters, "Whatten stagnation thissaint no goddam likker?"
But it's way too late.

Waking up already, hollowed out but heavy headed,
having traversed an impossible path to his own bed.
Good thing this here woman knows about the crazy man inside.

And good thing she loves him. And good thing it's pajama Saturday.

"Who're I?" says he first, "This bed's gone all Moses and firesticks
And my thoughts are invisible."
She soothes sayingly, "The man is here..."

(they both pajama back over to the bartop
and bloody Mary their way around another Saturday morning,
but that's another story:

NDW & JWR