DRUNKS AND POETS NEVER GET THE NIGHT OFF
No socks on, I sit in front of the tyrant and type,
awakened by the raucous commerce of drunkenness
in the street below my window.
Headphones on,
Charlie Parker blows his brains out
and I listen,
remembering my own nights
of pseudo happiness
deep in the jar,
the quintessential pickled
drunken lout.
Everything was so near and yet so far
everything had to be said
in voices loud and repetitious.
Shouted to fellow drunks
deep in their own excess
was any of it remembered
is anyone's guess.
But it seemed to be fun at the time
and if I didn't know the reason
I could always forget the rhyme.
All that's left is the sour taste in my mouth
from all the lovers that went south.
There is Xmas music in my headphones now
our own musical version of the sacred cow.
The sirens wail and
another handcuffed miscreant
with no one in sight to thank
is taken away for night of
puke and abuse
in the city drunk tank.
He will be dumped back into the rainy street
this Xmas morn,
hung over, stinking,
dirty and forlorn.
Depressed, I'm waiting for my kettle to boil
in front of the unforgiving monitor I toil
I sniffle and cough
waiting for my late night coffee
and realize
drunks and poets
never get the night off.