Among Nightingales
Sweeny
sits smugly among his nightingales.
Me,
I choose to drink myself companionship.
Salud to you, old friend.
This cold current of discomfort is no casual acquaintance.
Awkward social circles is the soil in which my seed is sown,
holding up the walls in the corner of the room
a new wallflower
waiting to bloom.
Dust
vodka
disaffection (what sustenance!)
withdrawn and demure
with two shoes planted firmly in the floor.
Above a certain aspect
and a table to drink you under it.
To stand stoic, festooned in odd blooms
doomed to blossom into this sad strange shape every evening.
While Sweeny giggles in gales
among his girls.
I dig this one. smoothness, mister, smoothness.
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