The Hangover

Pour in the daiquiri mix: poets blended together
with ice and served in a newly sugar-rimmed glass
with a garnish – that wets my lips.
I go home sweetly intoxicated and thirsty for more
but the reading is over and if I want to sip
more I must suckle myself. The pen comes out
and pours fourth more
and I am quenched soon enough, and sleepily
leave half-written accounts and metaphors that
I can’t remember producing.
I foggily recall that the product of each reading
is the next morning’s writing.

Adrienne D. Mishkin