The Sunday Whirl

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It’s a vicious mix of drink 
No justice til you’re done 
Say cheers to those who think 
You’ll never be the one. 

It settles in your gut 
even when you sway and weave 
You climb down off your shelf 
you brush dust off your sleeve. 

It’s a line of chain events 
which tell you who’s the boss 
stuck in a sticky web 
you’re surely meant for loss. 

So you send a friendly wave 
and call to those nearby 
In a month or two 
They won’t remember you didn’t try.

©2021 CBialczak Poetry