We came out of the bar about as drunk
as we could get--unburdened, clumsy, broke,
and singing bawdy songs. We stank of smoke
and failure. In the street, a black cat slunk
away, afraid of all our boisterous noise.
He clattered down the alley with the cans
and moaned a hopeless music, like a man's
last cry before despair packs up his voice
in rough pine crates. My hat all bent to hell,
askew atop my wildly spinning brain,
I sang Oh Mary Jane, won't you be mine?
I've had my penecillin--then we fell
into each other's arms and laughed the pain
into our collars. I got home by nine.
_
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