THE DRUNKARD AT 2.00 A.M. By John Grey

Ejected from the bar

at closing time,

I avoid a tangle

of brawling drunks

on the sidewalk,

no spring in my step,

no sexy young woman on my arm.,

just the taste of alcohol on my tongue,

and a head like a nest 

of copulating foxes,

my extended arm

out of reach 

of every cab

as the buildings higher up,

close their eyes,

crash in place,

and I stagger 

in no particular direction,

cold and brain-dead

and as thirsty 

as Lawrence Of Arabia’s horse –

I’m like a prisoner just released –

I sure could use

a spell in jail about now.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.