Lisa Needs To Lay Off the Sauce
Lisa's vodka voice
calls from outside,
later than late, when
the stars have shut down
for the night, refusing
boozer-sight that prevents
one from tripping.
Screech owl's search light,
a Full-Sturgeon moon,
is still much too dark, if inebriated
to distinguish which cement walls
are most likely to attack.
Two eves past, her
horse auditioned,
center-stage,
in the living room.
He too loves a good
drink.
Excuse me, for I hear
her knock of desperation
at the door. As for Duke,
the horse; not to worry,
he can hold his own beer.
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