the last hurrah of mohl

got a call to go to the bar in the middle of writing this. not really finished, but who cares...

it began with the bathtub gin
mixed with the swill plopped in my hand
and ended with me staring
at chunks of delicious pork
floating in a bowel of tequila bile
while a mere twenty feet away
fake breasts were on display.
the beauty of a baseball game in the rain
and all the lost boys play on.
sincere or drunken words
take me back three years
to a boardwalk on the jersey shore.
the roles are reversed,
but i'm still the silent one.
some boys grow up,
some stay in neverland,
i try to keep my passport fresh
but each year there are fewer stamps
until only shadows on the moon
will wake me from synthetic dreams
of golf courses and weekend fishing trips
to remind me how everything tasted
the first time.