Dilemmas Of The Drunken

Decidedly blase, as the hours tumble past If divinatory; as the strains of old fugues That once roused us to incoherent victories. Never mind that the cock crowed thrice, Ere you forgot our names- And lord, the company you keep Locked in that old hobnail chest; How you'd be disdained, were it known The lampshades here drink old booze Under a goat-grey sky, at morning And your key's sloppy turning, meteor-like On its slow approach, at decoding the lock. But sleeping fitfully now, on the porch, Your muddy shoes can tell no tales Of your evenings holy grails.