Algonquin Afterthoughts

By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying— Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying. —Dorothy Parker Or else our drunken tumble was too true for daylight’s pleasure, too much in vino veritas troubled the gods of measure who sent bright draughts of sunshine down and sobered up my treasure. All night rapacity had come as naturally as breathing; we nibbled on each other’s necks like greedy babies teething. How soon an empty bottle makes one feel a blissful free thing. “Aspirin, aspirin,” he implored; I fed him several pills, and when he wondered where he was it gave me frightful chills, but still I told him of the party’s unexpected thrills. Words woke us up, reflection turned affection to regret: “After she left me I tried not to do this, but I get so lonely”...so I showed him out, warbling “I’m glad we met.” But now I crave the swift return of scotch-transfigured nights, like Chaplin, horrified by his rich friend in City Lights who only recognizes him from liquor-gladdened heights, sticking a tall glass in the man’s upstanding hand (the clink or worse awaits poor tramps like us if scamps like you won’t think) and meekly scolding, in a voice weak with nostalgia, “Drink.”