FELLOW DRINKER

by John Grey

The man is spun into the world
by the bar-stool beneath him.
I'm not drunk like he is drunk.
My body and my head are still enjoined.
I'm not legs going one way,
mind drifting backward.
I don't see the hills above Montpelier,
the cows, the children tossing baseballs,
or young girls dipping toes in cold streams
while my knees give out
and my face slams against the sidewalk.
Waiting for someone as I am,
I'm just a little in my past.
And I know to drink just enough
to keep my bones in line.
Sure I see the hills, but the mirror
behind the bar's more clear.
And there's a few cows
but they're scattered among the gin bottles.
The bar-tender keeps the conversation going.
The baseballs whiz around his head.
And for every young girl felt up by the chill,
there's a lovely woman who'll be with me shortly.
But I order another drink
just in case she doesn't show.
My body's been this way before.
The sidewalk is on standby.