Blacking out in some basement café, crowded
And alone in the sad mid-century, I come back & go on
Hunting powder-puff angels, the pan-caked faces

Under bangs cut straight, the puckered mouths wet
With lipstick. Then do I move through night, glass
After each empty glass—am I all right?

Sure be: Henry's famous, even hip.
The kids pick me out in the dimmest bars
Or slopping late in the Chinese joints

Of Boston, on the make. It's always time
To get stuffed. Here's the edge of awake—
Cocktails, pack of matches, somebody's face

Watery-familiar. Hi there, stranger.
Here's to being up for something beautiful,
Regrettable and sore.