I wake
with shadows
and cat hair
in my mouth.
The ceiling crawls
with other people’s memories,
scenes and imagery
in the stucco.
I think
I see a walrus.
Last night,
I drank whiskey with a bullfrog
and argued about rent,
who was gonna
win the Belmont Stakes.
The closet doors whispered back,
their old wood peeling
like aged skin,
and I almost believed
they had secrets
and stories of their own.
A baby grand
fell from the ceiling
and hit the floor
like a drunken sailor
who knows too much.
Dolphins tell tales.
The curtains twitched
like they were trying to warn me
about something
I’d nearly forgot.
Somewhere, a streetlight hums
a tune I almost remember.
I think I left my heart
under the couch cushions
of a bar I’ve never been to.
Hangovers are for children.