you think about the time in
Malibu
after taking the tall girl
to dinner and drinks
you come out to the Volks
and the clutch was
gone
(no Auto Club card)
nothing out there but the
ocean and
25 miles to your
room
(her suitcase there
after an air trip from somewhere
in Texas)
and you say to her, “well,
maybe we’ll swim back in,” and
she forgets to
smile.

and the problem with 
writing these poems
as you get into number 7 or
8 or 9
into the second bottle near
3 a.m.
trying to light your
cigarette with a book of
stamps
after already setting the
wastebasket on fire
once 
is 
that there is till some
adventure and joy
in typing
as the radio roars its
classical music
but the content
begins to get
thin.