What Did Not Happen

Blue Bud Light cans reflect blurry images

projected into twisted pictures of a faux reality.

Yelling slurred speech to party goers about the bitch

you just finished fucking in the tiny apartment bathtub

that reeked of the kid passed out on the couch’s

vomit. Consciousnesses coming in like an ocean tide,

and sailing out on a bottle of tequila flooding your

blood stream. 4am, time to stumble home across

campus in your beer soaked frat shirt with the

holes ripped in it from skidding across concrete with

your face outside the bar last week. Grabbing the keys to

your girlfriend’s white 2011 mustang convertible

she lent you to go pick up groceries at the local

farmer’s market. Sliding the key into the ignition

as gently as an artist formulates his images on

an off white canvas. Steady at first, switching the

clutch into reverse. Slowly pulling out of the half

ass park job you did earlier nearly swiping the

metal machine against the bicycle rack. Cranking

the playlist on shuffle as you slowly make your way

down the interact pot hole infested brick roads.

Light poles streak by as you accelerate into black

holes of memory lapse… A tap on the shoulder from a

buddy and all you’re left with is a bad hangover

and a vague idea of a Wednesday night.