Saturday Afternoon Hungover
Sometimes, it is all about what you've got in reserve.
Found this in a notebook. Thinking of my dog, his love of bones. My love of getting him bones. Then both of us satisfied, me with a beer to nurse my hangover, him with his 3 day bone. Life was good.
Saturday Afternoon Hungover
Saturday afternoon hungover
I’m sure glad there’s some beers
in the fridge.
Hot as hell
in my little piece of paradise
me, standing in the middle of
the mercado, the market
trying to buy some calf legs
for my dogs
— it’s the weekend after all,
dogs got to enjoy themselves …
and I’m trying to make him understand
the butcher,
all forearms,
shaking his head
and me finally,
pulling out a pack of pesos
and he immediately says, “Sure.”
in impeccable English and
I’m thinking
I’m sure glad there’s some beers
in my fridge.
Some days, hungover
it is all Twilight Zone.
Saturday afternoon hungover and
I walk home up the hot hill.
Man! These bones are heavy.
And I watch a guy in a Beamer
run over a chucho - a street dog,
the vehicle not even blinking
the dog not even ever more moving.
So glad I got those beers in the fridge.
Saturday afternoon hungover
and I give the dogs a bone.
Their happy. I’m happy.
I got those beers in the fridge.
Rome’s burning.
My head’s pounding.
We all seek our own demise
like a candle burns to its end.
Saturday afternoon having a cold one
and writing this crappy poem
no one will understand unless
they’ve been hungover with
no beers in the fridge and
no hope of getting any
and no dog to throw a bone to.