Dishes delicious, tables laden with
nothing I want to eat, not even the
star treat, hot dog buns palming
“what purports to be sausage,” wink, wink.
(Supposedly, only the artsy who live in
lofts of New York City really
get it.)  

Forget it –
I’ve come for plum brandy.  

Everyone’s nice, I take a seat.
I let decanters of wine pass me by.
Come on, wouldn’t you like to try?
I shake my head.
I’m saving room for plum brandy. 

Then I feel the meal escaping,
my consciousness blinking.
I reach for the bottle, rude, seeing
I’m spent, useless as a bruised banana.  

I don’t even take a drink, I sink
back into dirt that birthed me, knowing
I never needed no
m_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ plum brandy.