Stuffed mushrooms and bruschetta lack
the substance of a meal on which to drink.
To make a good impression, I danced with Aunt Pat.
Needfully I paced my first round of wine at a sprint.
Today is a headache of withdrawal. So much
social behavior has abraded my eye tentacles.
We sleep until the sun abates his punch
upon our lids, preferring night's pentacles.
All fuzziness and callouses, we cook
penne alfredo with garlic shrimp for dinner.
A sated belly, a come-hither look
obscure all other pains. Whether sinners
or not, we bask in love and new-moon starlight,
a happy pair of pagans, warm in the night.
