Behold, I bring you a straw to hang onto,
for it is cocktail hour and you are clearly drowning,
untroubled by many things. Perhaps
dishing out cigars etc.
to scores of fat old roosters
isn’t quite your idea of visiting Uncle.
Perhaps it isn’t mine either. Maybe
we both got here by mistake.
Whatever. After taking a bath
in your opinions, a feeling
of distant calm emerges
refreshed, albeit defeated by you,
long-legged attendant. Why shoot silent
bullets at me as the last man standing
comes out with his hands up?
Soon you’ll be an old rooster too,
offering a claw to hang onto.