Late Night Poetry

Saturday, October 27, 1990. 3:30 A.M.

Saturday, October 27, 1990. 3:30 A.M.“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”—drawn-out silence disturbed only by the muted sounds of a barking dog—“But I don’t love thee freely, do I?”—harsh, barking laughter—“f**k homophobic fathers all the way to hell.”—three wet hiccups in rapid succession followed by slurred words—“s**t. Sorry. I’m drunk. Druuu-uuu-uuunk. Bill dragged me to the King’s Arms tonight and I saw someone that reminded me of you, so I drank too much. But he was too tall, taller’n me and his hair was a stripey, dishwater blond and not golden. And not curly enough. But he moved like you. Like…he flailed his arms and kicked his legs instead of actual dancing. Only you would call that dancing.

“But when I saw him properly, his eyes were some weird-ass brown-ish color and they looked all wrong. If I had talent for writing poetry, I would write one of them…whatchamacallit…odes?…to your gray eyes. You’d think gray eyes would be cold and harsh like steel, but yours are always warm and soft. f**k, Sully. I don’t even know what color my own eyes are, but I know yours. What color are my eyes?”—shuffling booted footsteps on what sounds like a wooden floor, followed by the opening of a squeaking door—“Blue. Huh. I knew that. I really did drink waaaaaaay too much.”—pained groan—“I miss you, Sully. Oh. And it’s Lou, by the way.”