Stroking the Rest
Please fill the glass, it is going away.
The buzz can't linger on the lips and buds.
And now his legs will give to ridge and sway
or stick to floors and stop the soul as mud
from a cold day in April or in March.
Nowhere to go, he laughs and begs to stay.
Last call was hollered by the tending lark.
But turned from home there is no head to lay.
And without sex while having age lined eyes
He stays and sips until the sun can rise.
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