The sky is narcoleptic,
uneven, witless,
itŐs the Wednesday before last,
you forget your white pills
at the high hat bar
known as the Question Mark
somewhere in Honolulu,
but you are too drunk,
a juiced road runner
resembling Tyrone Power
crossing the street backwards,
becoming overheated and antsy
in the travelling company
of two-bit pushovers and actors,
making me feel sad
yet not wanting the mainland
with the faraway cries
of the eagles.