Monday Night Drinking

“It is unlawful to pick wildflowers in the park”

Ten P.M., three red-heads, several correspondences via
electronic un-voice in standard font on cellular telephone screens,
five cases of Pabst, twin triangles of love in one apartment
with four doors to deeper destinations, eight reasons to cry
at any given moment, nine words on stolen aluminum,
and six ways to pretend she’s not in love
with a green Mohawk and nowhere to be in the morning.

Eighteen years of harvesting defenses and grooming
thirteen ways to look away when he’s sincere.
Eleven pancakes condescended by fifteen twenty-somethings
over the course of twelve such Mondays in the apartment
with fourteen seats to seventeen rears, on average,
and no voice to the narrative of nineteen ghosts
in sixteen closets deprived of oxygen, yet steadily glowing.

Hour four instigates the flogging of Molly ten-times over
with whipping black hair, grinding voices, and air-pounding fists.
Drinking of the Jenga order eliminates eighteen beers
in fourteen minutes by six brave souls and eight passes
at Daryl, already two cases in.
Twenty cigarettes per pocket of each porch-dwelling puffer,
and sixteen mentions of the top twelve apparatuses.

At three A.M. our voices howl in unison, at five we break off
into introversion and thirteen lashes of personal
demons slashing with eleven gleaming claws.
At seven we dance until nine, with fifteen mistakes to dissolve
in eleven plus drinks,
and nineteen hours for seventeen rears to come to terms with daylight
and a set of vegetarian pasta within poetry-inscribed, black Styrofoam.