Dumb Drunk

—Jerry Dyer

Toward morning, the sky begins to bleed,
and car keys being unfindable,
I decide to water the lawn.
Dressed in dontcaradam clothes,
my thumb frames an anchorage for a rainbow,
and Sunday turns into June.
And neither roses nor crabgrass will ever
thank me, or pay for another round of drinks.

These lost weekends are always the same:
twenty books open to page two or three,
the CD player left humming,
candles guttering out. Above the piano,
the traffic lights’ reflection forms an emblem:
window-paned, washed-out red giving way,
for just a sec, to a ghastly green:
The kingdom of stop and no.

I grew up where they measure life
by hurricanes, and now I count off days
waiting for the earth to move.
Tresha says sailors always drown face down.
It’s fifty two miles to the Golden Gate Bridge,
but I know I would never be able to pick
between the city and the ocean view.
Yeah, I’m so dumb, if I was a bird
I wouldn’t even know
which end of the worm to chew.

2 thoughts on “Dumb Drunk

  1. Great poem, Jerry! There is a sad ennui that pervades it, a dark cloud that hangs over it. I appreciate how the sentiments are conveyed through imagery.

  2. I just found out how to work this labyrinth of a blog (or whatever it is) and I am overwhelmed with what I have been missing. This is written so late after the date of entry that you will never find it. But you might. This a lovely morose brilliant self-deprecating wildly comic poem that is typical Jerry.
    I am delighted monthly when I get to read your stuff. What do you mean you don’t know which end of the worm to eat ……. Such a dilemma! …. You eat the end that is talking to you, silly!!!

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