I am on a self imposed exile from:
old haunts
women
happiness
life.

time only
to be my fathers voice at the hospital
when a stroke
with the conscience of the damned
steals his silver tongue.

tonight
after the last call at the hospital
my car
on automatic pilot
guided by past trips
parks in front of a bar
So what am I to do?
what’s the harm of one drink?

at the end of the bar
listening to the slurred speech
of three drunken men
I don’t know
but hate
for noises
coming out of
empty insipid mouths
while I silently scream
cursing the fates
that took my father’s voice.

the rush of women’s perfume
stirs old memories
temporarily more powerful than present tragedy
so what am I to do?

what’s the harm of talking to two women on either side of me?
who form a perfect double decker sandwich
my sadness now at war
with happy cheerleader small talk.

it’s true what they say
once you ride a bike
you never forget
my forced small talk and fake smile
flow as easily as a hinterland river
I turn from side to side
silently measuring the two women like a judge
at a poor man’s Miss America contest. .

let’s get down to basics
Leslie’s ass is as admired by men
as the finest Cuban cigar
and Laura’s mouth has made men
scream louder than a fishwife.

primal urges send confusing thoughts
at war with my sadness.
until my fourth drink gives me
a clarity of thought
known only by high priests
who meditate in the Himalayan mountains
and city drunks who fuck in alleyways
so what am I to do?

What is the harm of taking the women back to my apartment?
a tasty double decker sandwich
I fuck with my addled mind
as I try to open my apartment door three times without success
until I realize I am neither clever nor coherent
the right side of my mouth
frozen by alcohol
out of synch with the left.

I desperately point to my bedroom
like my father
I can only gesture
rendered silent
by cheap booze not misfortune.

waiting for the divine intervention of Hugh Heffner
to explain the Playboy philosophy
to my beautiful double decker sandwich
the women help me to my room
tuck me in my unmade bed
and gently kiss my forehead.

when morning comes I puke with such force and regularity
a moment of pride comes when
I memorize my toilet’s serial number
then I mourn
my double decker sandwich gone bad
and my father.