You think he’s half-baked, & I say
no, fried, & both of us so boiled
we don’t remember why we
brought him up in the first place.
Was it the savor of gin, bleared
romance drifting in the bleached air
& the tonic’s fizzing as
it fetched the brim of the glass?
A schemer, a scoundrel, a shill
or a saint–who could agree when
spent limes pale like citrus coins
with no value on the plate.
