My coat's dry-cleaned, but my throat is dry
so I clutch the keys to my rented car
while trying to catch the waitress' eye:
Happy Hour, haunting the taco bar
"Bottoms up" says button-down shirt
though the bill builds up and the rain may pour.
The city's new, but I know this hurt:
I feel that I've been in this state before.
If I could fly with my wing-tip shoes
I'd leave this baggage far behind
The sky would swallow my business blues
the moon white-out my shadowed mind
Yet darkness, drink, and my soul decline
the bottomless pit of the bottom line.
18 feb 85
JONATHAN VOS POST
Copyright 1996, 1997 by Emerald City Publishing.
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