Lush
You’re thinking of drunks,
I’m thinking of pale
pink, slippery comforters;
you’re thinking of
souses, I’m dreaming a top
sheet of 10,000 count.
You mention cirrhosis,
I answer with feathers
and cashmere and faux
fur so truthful my guests
take offense.
You’re on about tosspots;
I’m musing on Hollandaise,
a peppery Bernaise.
You’re thinking, your
one thought, of tipplers
and dipsos, bums
in their Bowery; I’m
remembering, as if it
were yesterday, a driblet
of whipped cream slid
warm off a nipple.
Your inference is rot-gut.
Your reference is red-eye.
You’re thinking of whiskey,
I’m speaking of wine.
Fair-Flung
Not far, which
could be
unjust (the left
half of a pair
of kid gloves
en route to the Pole
while the right
hand half
lingers
at the Equator)
but fair, as
in a stocking-foot
woman leant
loose against
a long hall-
way wall
with one red,
drunken pump
tossed on top
of a pillow
and equidistant
the other
catching the light
on the dining
room table.
