Clearly and with a little ice.

If I could
write
in the hand of
Baudelaire, the
beautiful Alexandra
might
love me.

If I could
even pretend
to pen an
ode
then I would
write one
for the passing
away of
a creaking
wooden bridge
named Bono.

A real bridge
not the U2 guy.

If the sun
keeps on
shining,
I may write
a poem and

clear my head.

If I could
think clear

even for a moment

I would know
I needed
another drink,

with a little ice.