Poetry

sadly, tea cannot cure a hangover,
just as alcohol can't cure depression
we have found out that earl gray in dover
tastes the same in chicago, confession!

father, a confession to be made now,
that my head hurts like my soul is broken.
to drink a glass of water, raised eyebrow
of the world, of last night, words unspoken

pop an advil, give a half-hearted grin,
and then a cup of steaming tea to wash
the glitter of yesterday off my skin,
pretend again to say our minds don't slosh

lipstick stains on shot glass, on porcelain
taking meds as we wait, the world begins.