I've been paid to pour sticky-sweet
dancing-juice down the throats
of men who can't afford
a ******
but want the salt of Bourbon Street
on their tongues when they wake up.
I've stumbled up to my door,
dropping the keys and loudly spitting out a
"Shh!"
to myself, to retain some sense
of dignity.
I've woken up with an army in my head,
shouts muddled because their leader
has been shot, and all they can do now
is stomp around and
make loud noise and
hurt.

It never hurt as much
as being awake without a hangover
and having nothing physical
to nurse.

I may not know
the amount of days
or weeks or months
or years
but I'm sure someday someone will
hold me
close at night
and breathe
"See you in the morning,"
into my ear.
And that thought
helps me sleep
until then.