delight this birdhouse-merry
ruckus of boozehounds. Remember
the songs you sang from that delapitated

barstool? Remember the belching
of that piano? Mr. Scrunch served

up sidecars with a flick
of his wrist. The panache, twirl of an oiled
mustache. & we wrote tombstones

for the citizens lost in the war between
ambiguity & defensiveness. We took sides.
We played scrabble with sailors & doomed
miners. We got lascivious. Mr. Scrunch, baby,

he's that penny on the railroad tracks. He's that
voice behind the moan.