This is another old poem that I revisited and revised…

The Currency Of Twenty Somethings

That was the year we lived
on cheap vodka and oj,
dragging my saggy bottomed couch
out on the balcony to drink
soppily on it every night
while watching
the other fools in the quad.

We loved our friends
and hated ourselves,
doing both indulgently
because the currency
of twenty somethings
flows without balance or budget.
And, for a while,
it was fun.

Then one weekend
you wanted me to pretend
I was too wasted to clutch
your confession about
what he had done to you-
but your story was a poignant jab
with a rusty brooch,
stickered in the fleshy pad
of my drunken little thumb.

I nursed the pain the next morning
by delivering lines to conclude
the previous night’s play,
our dueling soliloquies
about fucked up, fast-living youth.
God, I was so drunk last night-
it’s all a blur.
But we had fun, didn’t we?

Forgive me for my anemia
in that cardinal moment
for making a withdrawal
rather than a deposit-
I still wish I had made a better exchange.

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