Saturday Nights

He’s texting one of his many lovers
when he should be drinking with me.
“We should be drinking!”
I shout, and
he puts down his phone
and looks me over.
“You serious?” He asks.

I nod.

“Then let’s drink!”

When I wake up
we are behind bars
in a dumpster
with bananas and rinds
as our blanket and bed.

“That
was a night.”
He says
and I don’t have the heart
to tell him
that it might have been a night
and a day
and then another night.

Instead I say,
“Hair of the dog?”
and we begin again.

This cycle continues
until enough brain cells are killed
and one of us can no longer continue.

I’ll let you know
when that occurs.

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