Poem: Last Call

 

Last Call

 

the upheaval of bliss in the elixir

massaged the world

with biochemical paws.

 

it was appealing, indeed,

this dearth of confusion

in a lack of tomorrowness--

 

the paychecks mere math,

without grace or art.

 

which up was up, really,

and why so much descent?

why kneel sad yet glib

before a magistrate of illusion?

 

but

 

if a lion ant lurked

in a toothpick-skewered olive,

it had to be a trap,

 

a smooth slide of sinking allure

in a 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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8/15 corrected typo