Poem: Last Call

 

Last Call 

 

the upheaval of bliss in the martini

massaged my mind

with biochemical paws.

 

it was appealing, indeed,

this dearth of confusion

in a lack of tomorrowness--

  

which up was up, really,

and why so much descent?

why kneel sad yet glib

before a magistrate of paychecks and delusion?

 

and yet 

 

if a lion ant of a wish lurked

in a toothpick-skewered olive,

it had to be a trap,

 

a smooth slide of sinking allure

in a glassy funnel of gin.

 

maybe this eerie dizzy banquet

lacked euphoria, after all,

no longer steep, neither seductive,

just along for the cab ride.

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6/26/24

8/15 corrected typo