Drunk In the Bathroom

Drunk in the Bathroom

Oh, sweet Delia, she was a Chiquita
banana of a woman, small yellow teeth with
a musk like sweet wine that had sat in
the sun for seven days, then risen like
the bile in old Job’s throat.
If I could make Costa Rica forget
all the wrong I’ve done, I would only do more.
Tell me your name, I said, she said, “Que?”
With a slight lisp, so that it sounded
like ‘gay.’ I won’t say I’d had too much
to drink, there is not enough Delia
for me to ever drink myself full,
though after several draughts I had to go
to the bathroom. I was back in bed
wondering where my sweet Delia
had run off to before I realized
Costa Rica had no bathrooms, no women,
and no sheets to rival my sweet,
sweet Delia.


CL Bledsoe

Posted over on 2 River View