It was another Sunday
stirring bourbon
in the wing-backed chair,
in the same old place
I always end up in
when im flush.
I saw you at the bar,
said my hellos, smiled
& excepted your drink offer
and sat back down on my own
to squint at the yellow pages
of a Russian novel and try to forget
that I was me(or something, whatever)
and change my scenery.
It didn't take long until
you were dragging me away
up the stairs to kiss me and
turn me to stone, again
(or so I thought anyway)