Only Shirt Blues

Eye lids parting for the first time in ages,

revealing this new morning setting—

reveling in this new year settling

into reality. The cold first January air creeps

past dry-rotted weatherstripping, filling

this broken down west philadelphia half-double

estuary of warm and cold dry air.

Off the couch and lurching

towards the fridge, the sink, anything rooted

to this world, because lord knows I am

not. Stumbling past the stairwell

where last night I sat, prematurely

reminiscing about beer and mouthfuls

of vodka—reminded now of those heavings

by the terrible specks still stuck

to my loyal shirt of three days. Walking, stumbling,

humming a tune—the ‘Last Night’s Vomit

Still Stuck All Over My Only Shirt

Blues.’


Finally, the rest of the party can be ‘roused.

Stories of sex interrupted by better judgement

and a complete lack of condoms

are just better over a 32 oz. Peruvian coffee,

no cream. From philly to saucon, to hellertown,

warminster, then home for the first time this short

year. Out of body, out of mind, out of my wet

sweatshirt, still soaked in drunk punch,

into a new state of mind and also

a new t-shirt, and some new jeans too.

Socks with holes and shoes to match.

‘Somebody grab the tent.’ One last picture and we are off

to mine adventure beneath wintry Atlantic waves.