A Night Out with the Girls


The lady is eating dinner.  A bit
of baked potato falls from her fork,
steak cut in cubes too large
for her mouth, and then she is on
the floor.  We want to know:

is she drunk or choking or having a
seizure?  And if she's drunk
does that mean we have permission
to keep our eyes fastened to her body
as it writhes below us and motion

the bartender for another round?
Because we are not like her.  We'll
go home after a few too many
with everything intact.  A hangover,
perhaps, and an unidentified rash

that may or may not have something
to do with this lifestyle.  Could
be just a change of soap.  Trash can
by her head, she heaves nothing
into its open lens.  We tap ashes

from cigarettes.  Is she breathing?
her friend asks.  She was in a football
huddle with this woman minutes ago,
probably eat your potato, let it soak
up all that vodka, sweetie.  You're

doing great.  The women wobble
like the trees outside as we crane
our necks to the weather man, his hand
guiding the storm east at ten to fifteen.  
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