After the bacchanal surge, you leave the kitchen 
where flour-doused cabinet doors hang by their hinges. 

I question my neighbor through holes in the dam. 
We pass bourbon back and forth 
surpassing anchored limits. 

We are like Peanuts. My neighbor Lucy; and I, Pigpen. 
I toss a quarter Lucy’s way, ask for her advice 
but she just flips it and takes another sip. 

Bobbing up and down in need of counsel, 
I tell Lucy I can’t deal 

Lucy drones on and on all monotone-like: 
                                                                     blah-blah, blah-blah. 

Mid-sentence, all is black. 

Next morning you are back beside me in bed
sun shining through slit blinds,
its beams like slashes across your face.