Thirteen cattails, each holding its shot glass
nod by the bar. They almost have faces. If you try hard
you can see them. (Try another drink.) They grow here wild,
immortal, in bronze corduroy jackets with thistly collars.
Round about six they begin to appear, displacing
the water lilies and the more exotic growths.
The raw tincture of potato is not for them.
It tells too clear a story, Too cold and fiery.
No, they’re drinking seven and seven, or rum and coke,
and by morning they’ll be sober as a board.
In response to this Morning Porch post