Under the table, no. That last was stunning,

that flagon had breasts. Some men grow down cursed.

Why drink so, two days running?

two months, O seasons, years, two decades running?

I answer (smiles) my question on the cuff:

Man, I been thirsty.

The brake is incomplete but white costumes

threaten his rum, his cointreau, gin-&-sherry,

his bourbon, bugs um all.

His go-out privilege led to odd red times,

since even or especially in hospital things get hairy.

He makes it back without falling.

He sleep up a short storm.

He wolf his meals, lamb-warm.

Their packs bump on their’ -blades, tan canteens swing,

for them this day my dawn’s old, Saturday’s IT,

through town toward a Scout hike.

For him too, up since two, out for a sit

now in the emptiest freshest park, one sober fling

before correspondence & breakfast.