December 9, 2k6

Call me when you’re drunk

Call me when you’re mush-mouthed and nodding,
when you’re blink-eyed and bobbing.
I’ll take back our ugly sober words
and mix them up with grenadine.

Café Depot always scares me
since you chucked your chai at me
when I said that you look better
after you’ve had two or three.
That’s why I get a rain check
when you say  “Let’s get coffee!”

Hit me on my pager when the brew shakes get you major.
But call me when you’re drunk.

Call me when you’re lazy-eyed and smiling,
when you’re double-dosed and dopey.
I’ll fill the empties in your eyes
and drain them out again.

Last time we kicked it straight-edged,
you straight-up kicked my ass.
I said for all the gin in Georgia
that I wouldn’t take you back
cuz you’re punchy as a party
and my jaw is made of glass.

I’ll set my status to “away” when you’re hung-over the next day.
But you can call me when you’re drunk.

Call me when you’re plastered wall to wall,
swerving nicely northly in your pinkish Eighty-Eight.
I’ll yank you off your wagon
like a pervert in the park.

You won’t give up our good times
because some judge threatened strike three.
Once you’ve downed your whiskey-sodas
and some double G&T’s,
then you’ll be blitzed and awful
friendly to half pint little me.

Write to me the day you drop out of AA
then call me when you’re drunk.