After the bacchanal surge, you leave the kitchen
where flour-doused cabinet doors hang by their hinges.
I question my neighbor through holes in the dam.
We pass bourbon back and forth
surpassing anchored limits.
We are like Peanuts. My neighbor Lucy; and I, Pigpen.
I toss a quarter Lucy’s way, ask for her advice
but she just flips it and takes another sip.
Bobbing up and down in need of counsel,
I tell Lucy I can’t deal
Lucy drones on and on all monotone-like:
Mid-sentence, all is black.
Next morning you are back beside me in bed
sun shining through slit blinds,
its beams like slashes across your face.