My Friend Doesn’t Drink
and so how am I supposed
to keep in tune with her sanity?
Or the way she talks mundanities
as I ponder cause and effect of wine
in my previous dancefloor tragedies.
She watches the world rotate,
similar to the way my head spins.
And yet I somehow manage
to build a house of beermats
out of what might-have-beens.
And her hips sway to the bar,
swimming to the rhythm
of drums and an electric guitar,
images sticking to my memory
like the spilt ale on my left arm.
And she knows all of the words,
slamming Summer of ’69
and doing a bloody fine job.
I got my first real six-string…
and a shot. And a shot. A shot.