Wasted at Denny’s on a Sunday Morning

Poetry: Wasted at Denny’s on a Sunday Morning.

It’s Sunday morning, I gave the waitress
a wrinkled smile and I can’t decide whether
to gloriously order the slam dunk platter,
and let out an easing groan to let the whole
world know or just crash out on this table
smoothly for a good ten minutes or so.

I’ll rumbunctiously yell to that waitress
or manager, ‘ I fvcken love you man!’, for
Im sappily wasted like a high school sophmore
chick finally seeing The Notebook or fvcken
Titanic for the first time on a blissful autumn day
in October.

Thank God, Ive got my buddies here with me,
hopefully Im not plastered to the ceiling with
colorful marks on my face. This dusky morning,I’ll
be sleeping and dreaming of Angels and
knowing who I am, memories of childhood bliss
which never seems to go away.

 

Been there, done that. Not many places open 24-7 anymore.