Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Alan Catlin- A Poem

Too Drunk to Walk, Sober Enough to Drive

After the four course, tip-included
meal, the splits of cheap champagne
toasts, the well drink, call brands extra,
open bar. After the chicken dancing,
Macarena contests, hokey pokey
marathons. After serious make out
sessions with perpetual bride to be,
off again-on again girlfriend, office
whore.  After slamming the door to
the included-in-the-package room
for the duration of the night. After
stumbling half-dressed, with flip flops
instead of shoes, fumbling car keys,
sliding on treacherous-not-salted
sidewalk ice, too drunk to walk
but sober enough to drive. After
crawling on all fours to the vehicle,
the scraping of a few square inches
of windshield ice and climbing up
behind the wheel and wondering aloud
when this already turned on, motherfucking
vehicle is ever going to start. After
finally negotiating blind no left turn, left
turn, and the closing of one eye to better
locate and reduce the divergence of
double yellow lines in early AM sleet
freezing rain, now fully engaged for
the ole bump and grind involving parked
cars, stationery poles, road signs, picket
fences. Nothing deters him. Not curbs,
road flares, emergency lights, not men
with fire hoses dousing a smoking car,
nor waving men in yellow slickers and
side arms. The whole scene lit up for him
like a giant pinball machine, only the final
score waiting to be rung up on the tote board,
waiting to be finalized.

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