My 23rd Birthday was at your mom’s. Dry
Aviation Gin in Solo cups. Nick filched
Rum from his own mussied mom. Rich beamed at
Keeping tally on our drinks, sans vermouth. Ice-

Thinned American gin. Eyes in his cup, Nick flounced
Irked apology: He’d screwed off your 12th Grade,
Made tally on our dreamt-up sins from youth, his
One year’s loss souring the few to follow

That man. your “sorries” screwed loose his 12th Grade
Ho-Hum. Mine had barely begun that poetic
Year One; losing soured the few who’d follow
My heartache—which in truth blent more heartburnt

Acid “Reflects”: caesural leaps at the poetic
Cliffside audience of One (or nobody) who’d
Done in each witchy truth, bland, the heartburn to
Our hoosier martinis. My darling hopes

No side audience praised nor warm body
As ad nauseam as need be. Your age beamed at
Losing lunch of martinis. Maundering home
Dried my guts and tears that 23rd Birthday at your mom’s.