#thereof #absinthehangover




I could write a poem

about an absinthe hangover

but it would be a damn lie.


I may have slept

and felt reluctant to rise;

the minimally comfortable bed

in a dusty apartment

does have its charm


and though I don’t remember

my money was neatly counted;

passport and train tickets together

underneath a notebook

laying on the table next to the bed


but my pants were under my pillow;

one sneaker in the bathroom

one sneaker in the foyer

and my socks were laying

on top of the television set.


I only vaguely remember

the brewpub on Vodickova

or the walk back to the apartment


Visions of Vietnamese women

in green skirts and blouses

are permanently etched in my retina

and little else seems to matter


It’s late, late morning;

a little sunlight penetrates

the heavy curtains on the window;

just as I feel an air

of clarity in my thoughts


I gingerly rise to my feet

and hobble to the kitchen

for a drink of water

to quench my dry throat

and face another Prague afternoon




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