When my sons were infants I couldn’t sleep—
Mesmerized, gawking into their cribs, hypnotized
By their little lungs—collapsing, inflating again.
Now they’re out skirt-chasing & boozing it up
Long after I’m snoozing on the couch, or changing form—
Though my complexion is that of an aging man, in
Bar-light I’m still very much a confused boy unraveling,
Unable to resist impulsive-want—another round on my tab
For the irregulars, the men who can’t ever go home
Because their house keys no longer fit their locks.
I know this may sound egocentric, but as I’ve aged
I’m more Gandhi-like, but secretly wolfing a cheeseburger.
I can’t explain my life contradictions to part-time
Bartenders. If only life were clearer, I would have been
Less imperfect, unlike the way a drunk points at other
Drunks, blaming them for all his misfortunes & hard luck.