Half In the Bag

You once dragged five cops to my house, bursting out laughing as I hid like a mouse, plucked in the wings like a poisoned grouse. You were drenched, wearing one shoe, looking as if you fell in the stew, tossing a shrug when you pressed on through. I begged for a while, hoping to convey how much your whirlwind stirred disarray all over my clandestine survival foray. You coughed a chortle behind bloodshot eyes, a true kindred soul I could never despise, if silence could rule as our sole compromise. The constables proved a relentless sort they were just dying to drag you to court, rapping the glass as patience ran short. Huddled in the dark, ten paranoid souls trying to duck underneath the patrols, liberty trumping all other goals. With the daylight came our salvation, freedom granting us blissful elation. We’d survived without condemnation. Sometime later, my slumber was stirred, open my eyes to a scene most absurd: your car perched on the fence like a bird! Half in the bag, you tried digging out, frustrated curses pointing your shout toward my weary door without doubt. I laughed as I rolled back to sleep, amazed you racked your car so steep topping that snow bluff like a heap.